


Death and Orchids

by akfedeau



Category: Hitman (Video Games)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Comedy, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, Other, Parody, Story within a Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-14 16:40:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 26,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18480190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akfedeau/pseuds/akfedeau
Summary: When Agent 47 picks up some airport reading between contracts, he judges a book by its cover - and gets more than he bargained for. The book is a romantic melodrama with searingly explicit sex, a dash of murder, and a dubious grip on metaphors. Bewildered, but intrigued, he tells Diana Burnwood about his new find, and they embark on a literary journey - one almost as strange as the plot brewing in their own world.





	1. Prologue and Cover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to bourbonpowered on Tumblr for the post that inspired this story. I've written professional romance content for two years - this parody is done with love.
> 
> Some of the places 47 visits in _Death and Orchids_ are landmarks that exist in real life. If something sounds specific, look it up on Google Maps! You can do a scavenger hunt and follow the route that 47 takes.

In a brownstone townhouse on a cold October night, a man paced back and forth with a sense of implacable dread.

A stack of letters lay unopened on his dark cherry desk, and his laptop idled on an inbox with 438 unread emails. A draft of a speech sat with an empty printer cartridge in the trash, and the ice melted in the glass of whiskey on his blotter pad. Around him, his office brimmed with the symbols of a life lived right - a banker’s lamp, Gainsborough armchairs, law books on the shelves.

The thermostat read 64, but the man rolled up his sleeves. His wife had left for the evening, but he kept the double doors closed. He trudged in aimless circles with his hands on his stocky hips, stopping only to run his fingers through his gray crew cut.

When his phone vibrated on the octagonal end table, he stomped across the room and tapped the screen to see who’d called. _Gloria,_ it said. He grunted and flipped the phone upside down, and a few seconds later, it beeped to tell him he had a voicemail. He shuffled over to the window and peeked through the blinds, and scowled at the Washington Monument glowing in the distance.

“Damn,” the man grumbled about nothing, and loosened his silver tie.

And then, as he turned away, he heard a thump inside the house.

The man froze. His shoulders tensed. His toes curled in his shoes. He glanced over his shoulder, then at the office doors. He found nothing in the window, but stood rooted to the spot - until a scratchy song played on the record player downstairs.

 _Mr. Sandman - bring me a dream_  
_Make him the cutest that I’ve ever seen_  
_Give him two lips like roses and clover  
_ _Then tell him that his lonesome nights are over_

The man swallowed the lump in his throat. “Hello?”

No one answered him.

“Hello?” The man repeated, louder this time. “Hello? Who’s there?”

The man waited on tenterhooks for other signs of life. No clicks. No squeaks. No one talking. No one coming upstairs. But still the song continued, muffled through the heavy walls - like an old vinyl siren daring him to venture out.

 _Sandman - I’m so alone  
_ _Don’t have nobody to call my own_

The man furrowed his brow as he slunk over to his desk, and yanked his top drawer open and pulled an old revolver out. He fished beside it for bullets and clicked them in one by one, and snapped the cylinder shut and slowly - gently - opened the door.

 _Please turn on your magic beam  
_ _Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream_

The man crept through the hall with his revolver by his ear, and cocked the hammer as he creaked down the narrow flight of stairs. The song grew louder as he inched into the lavish living room, watching the walls for shadows and listening to his own footsteps.

 _Mr. Sandman - bring me a dream_  
_Make him the cutest that I’ve ever seen_  
_Give him the word that I’m not a rover  
_ _Then tell him that his lonesome nights are over_

“All right.” The man’s voice shook. “What the hell’s going on here?”

Apart from the spinning record player, nothing made a sound.

“I warn you!” The man raised his revolver. “I’ve got a gun!”

Nothing moved. Not the furniture. Not even the drapes.

The man took shallow breaths as a drop of sweat ran down his neck, and his beady blue eyes darted up and down, left and right. He tiptoed toward the record player - closer - _closer_ \- with his hand outstretched…

 _I’m so alone  
_ _Don’t have nobody to call my own…_

Then, as the man touched the needle to turn the record off, a lean, dark figure whipped a fiber wire around his throat.

The man hacked and gagged and flailed and kicked at the armchair, but the black-gloved hands bore down on either side of his head. In seconds, the man gasped and gurgled and his hands went limp, and the revolver hit the floor as he crumpled against the figure’s chest.

 _Mr. Sandman_  
_(Yes?)_  
_Bring us a dream  
_ _Give him a pair of eyes with a come-hither gleam_

With that, the figure hoisted the man back to the study upstairs, and dumped him on the tapestry rug as he set to work. An open button on the man’s collar. A folder on his desk. An extra slosh of whiskey in the glass beside the lamp. He brandished the revolver and shook five of the bullets out, and spun it to the loaded chamber and laid it by the glass.

The figure undid the man’s belt and tied it around his neck, then brought the chair over, heaved him up, and climbed onto the seat. With two good hoists, the man hung from the ceiling beam like a chandelier. The figure stepped off with graceful feet and kicked the chair away. And as the song ended with its last _bring us a dream,_ Agent 47 stepped out, straightened his tie, and shut the door.

 

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 1

The next morning, 47 stood in a cramped airport bookstore, and gazed at the tidy shelves as the news blared from every gate.

_Senator Charles Breckenridge has been found dead in his Washington, D.C. home, in what reports are calling a shocking apparent suicide. An Iowa firebrand who was infamous for his tactics on Capitol Hill, he leaves a controversial legacy - and enemies on both sides of the aisle._

47 found nothing in the row of detective paperbacks, so he dragged his carry-on across the store and picked through the sale pile. _Tuscan Cooking for Beginners._ No. _What The Golf Course Taught Me._ No. _When God Closes A Door: Trusting Christ in Tragedy._ No. _What Wall Street Won’t Tell You. The Skinny Girl’s Guide to Having Fun. The Dog Lover’s Devotional?_ 47 scowled. Definitely not.

 _Breckenridge’s death comes just weeks before the November midterm, where he would have faced his longtime rival, Jerry Cartwright,_ the report went on. _Breckenridge had polled well in swing districts and was projected to win, and several members of Congress have taken to social media to cry foul play._

At the front of the store, a young woman in headphones stopped and studied a tall display of glossy hardcover books. She took a copy off the stack and read the back cover, then snickered, put it down, and walked off with her duffel bag. A flight attendant peeked at it, then four others approached it, too, and an old businessman cringed as his wife pointed it out to him. 47 watched as every few seconds, it reeled in someone else - to admire it, laugh at it, or grab a copy of their own.

So, in a moment of indulgent curiosity, he pulled his suitcase to the stack and picked one up himself.

47 weighed it in his hand and felt an unexpected heft, then studied the simple black cover to try to make sense of it. A white, fully-bloomed orchid with a petal stained with blood. A red drop falling from it, like his tie against his shirt. _Death and Orchids,_ it read, in an elegant white serif font. _Vivienne Westgate._

 _Huh,_ 47 thought. _All right._

As soon as the woman at the counter took her copy and left, 47 brought his over and handed it to the cashier. The cashier rang it up while 47 fished his wallet out, and as he counted out exact change, the cashier sized him up.

 _“Death and Orchids,_ huh?”

47 furrowed his brow. “What?”

“Nothing.” The cashier looked skeptical. “Just not what I was expecting, that’s all.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing! It’s our biggest seller, actually. It’s just, uh…”

47 glowered at him.

“You know what? Never mind.” The cashier pasted on a friendly, but terrified service smile. “Did you find everything you were looking for?”

47 pushed his coins forward. “I did.”

“Awesome.” The cashier handed the book back. “You have a nice day.”

47 rolled his suitcase to a seat in the middle of his gate, and stood it up beside himself as he sat down and crossed his legs. A prim old woman took the seat beside him as he opened the book, and he skimmed through the chapters until a paragraph grabbed him by the throat.

> _“Bend over, Theresa,” Vincent purred to me. “Show me that your ass is mine.”_

47’s eyes went schoolboy-wide, and he reread the line. _Show me that your ass is mine,_ it said, the same as before. He felt someone watching him, so he glanced at the woman at his side, and found her staring at him with tight-lipped, knowing disgust.

 _Now boarding Group A, numbers 1 through 30,_ the gate announcer said.

But not one to be outdone, 47 turned back to the first page.


	3. Chapter 2

The next night, on the third floor of a Busan nightclub, revelers poured drinks and danced as music pounded through the walls.

The chandelier over the DJ table flared purple, blue, and green, and it bathed the room in color and glimmered off the tabletops. At the bar, a woman snatched her cocktail back from a man, and a pink strobe flickered over her as she strutted away. In a private room, an old man checked his phone at a round table, while guards with suits and the sides of their heads shaved stood outside the door.

And above them, 47 slipped through the maintenance attic like a wraith, making his way past crates and girders.

“All right,” he mumbled to his earpiece. “I’m in.”

On a yacht out in the harbor, Diana strode through the hall, with her skirt pressed and her dark brown hair tight in its chignon. She strode through her glass office doors as they opened with a _shwack,_ and the lights from the city shone on her patent leather heels. She slid into a mid-century armchair in front of a massive console, and poured herself a cup of tea as she wiggled the mouse to wake the screens.

“Where are you?”

“The attic.” 47 ducked under an electrical cord. “I got in through a balcony. They’re checking invitations at the door.”

“Strange. They didn’t give us that intel.” Diana clicked once, then twice. “I’m catching up to you…” she squinted as the map loaded. “Ah. There you are.”

47 wormed his way around a dusty DJ table, and Diana leaned over and took a cautious sip of her tea.

“How’s the guard presence?” She asked.

“Light.” 47 eyed the dark alley below. “I’ve cleared out the security room and disabled the cameras.”

“I assume if you’re telling me that, it’s safe for you to talk.”

“It is,” 47 answered, and skulked toward the windows.

“Tonight, you’re not just here to kill your target, Kang-Min Choi. You’re here to disrupt a diamond trade with fellow crime boss Ji-Seok Han.” Diana read 47 his orders with easy nonchalance. “It’s not crucial, but the client has offered a bonus for leaving Han alive. His death would create a power vacuum in the Busan underworld.”

The song changed in the club below, and the floor thumped to a different beat.

“Once Choi gives Han the diamonds, they’ll take the briefcase to a basement safe. Once it’s down there, it’ll be watched nonstop, and you’ll have to find the code.” Diana opened a file on her second screen called _Kang-Min Choi._ “On the other hand, you may be able to take the diamonds before the hand-off. Two men? A room full of armed guards? The situation could… escalate.”

“I’ll take the diamonds,” 47 muttered. “And think of something else for Choi.”

“Perfectionist as always.”

“That’s the way it should be done.”

47 flattened himself between two giant window panes, then scooted toward the left one to get a better vantage point. Diana reached for the conference call panel on the side of her desk, and muted line after line until only the one to 47 remained.

“You know, I don’t mean to pry…” Diana scrolled through Choi’s file - “but I saw an unmarked cash withdrawal from the company account.”

47 checked his watch. “Just work expenses.”

Diana’s face brightened. “That’s fine.”

“I fed myself for a day and bought a book at the airport.”

“Anything interesting?”

 _“Death and Orchids._ I’m not sure what it’s about.”

Diana lurched forward and nearly spilled her tea in her lap.

“Diana?” 47 asked.

Diana fought to regain herself.

47 frowned at the silence on her end of the line. “Diana?”

“Good lord. Are you really?”

“Why? Have you heard of it?”

“Have I _heard_ of it?” Diana set her teacup down to keep it safe. “Half the women at the ICA are devouring it like sharks. It’s all Sabrina in Accounts Payable has been able to talk about.”

47 peeked across the street. “Sabrina in Accounts Payable?”

“She’s a coworker of ours. I do talk to other people sometimes.” Diana blotted a drop of tea off the corner of her mouth. “She thinks she’s going to get me to read it, but she doesn’t know who she’s dealing with. I’m a bulwark against corruption.”

“That’s the Diana I know.”

In the alley, a sleek black sedan pulled up to the club door, and Choi poked his head out of the back seat when it rolled down its window. He talked to a guard before the driver turned the ignition off, and 47 eyed the gangway at the end of the attic wall.

“Diana?”

Diana looked up. “Hmm?”

“ICA has Accounts Payable?”

“Of course we do. How do you think the money gets wired to your account?”


	4. Chapter 3

In an upscale restaurant in Chicago O’Hare Airport, 47 sat on a barstool with his suitcase by his foot.

A piano jazz song played on the speaker over his head, and travelers chatted around him as their forks clinked on their plates. Servers rushed by with platters and the concourse swarmed with life, but 47 ignored it, his mind lost in his new book.

> _I stood there and stared at the painting for longer than anyone should, as most of the other gala-goers moved on to the next hall. The subject was sitting before me, naked as the day she was born, and it was impossible to avoid comparing myself to her. Her flat stomach. Her perky breasts. No spare flesh on the inside of her thighs. I had a thigh gap, too, but probably not as big as hers. Something about her pose told me she was supposed to seem casual, but in a way that still looked sexy. I knew a man must have painted her._

> _Then I wondered about the artist, and what she must have meant to him. Did he sleep with her? I scowled. He probably slept with her._

The bartender’s voice cut in. “Sir?”

47 glanced up.

“Sir?” The bartender shrugged at him. “Can I get you anything?”

“Ice water with lemon.”

The bartender looked perplexed. “That’s all?”

47 slid a ten-dollar bill across the marble countertop.

The bartender blinked at it, but took it anyway. “Uh, all right.”

47 watched the bartender fill a highball glass with ice, pour water over it, and garnish it with a lemon wedge. She set it on his coaster, but deliberated over it, then stuck a mint leaf on top to try to justify the price.

“Thank you,” 47 muttered, and went back to the book.

> _“You like her that much?”_

> _I jumped. A man’s voice jolted me out of my thoughts. Not a scary voice, but deep and rich, like a chocolate lava cake, one of the expensive restaurant ones with fudge sauce and ice cream. My heart skipped, and I had to catch my breath before I turned around. I had to know who that voice belonged to, even if I was a little afraid to find out._

> _I found myself looking up at the face of a tall, slim man, in a gray suit and black turtleneck with short, slicked-back black hair. He had a nose like a Grecian statue and a dimpled, granite chin, and full, sensuous lips and stubble that I knew was deliberate. The stubble of an underwear model. And the body of an underwear model, too, at least as far as I could tell from his broad shoulders and small waist. Normally, I would’ve found a man like him irresistible. But when I saw his smug expression, my jerk radar went off._

> _“Actually, no,” I said._

> _“You’re staring at her like you do.”_

> _“Well, I don’t.”_

> _“Oh?” The man cocked his eyebrow at me. “What do you think is wrong with it?”_

> _“I think it’s cold and unfeeling.”_

> _He frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”_

> _“I mean it doesn’t have any heart.” I should’ve stopped there, but I just had to go on. “Like, okay, her skin is perfect, and you can see every strand of hair. What’s she thinking? Is she bored? What are her eyes looking at? I mean, so what if her boobs are perky and the light bounces off them the right way? Just because he knows anatomy doesn’t mean he knows how to use it.”_

> _The man hummed a low, growling chuckle. “I don’t know how to use anatomy, huh?”_

> _My stomach dropped like a piano from a third-floor window. Oh my god. It was him. I was talking to_ the _Vincent Valmont. I had no idea, and I’d just torn his painting to shreds. I felt like curling up in a box and shipping the box to Antarctica, and just sitting out there with the penguins and thinking about what I’d done._

Again, 47 felt someone staring at him, so he peered over the dust jacket at the sunlit concourse. A young woman did a double take at him without breaking her stride - and then a triple take, her face somewhere between doubt and awe.

> _The man’s lips curled in the tiniest hint of a smirk. “What did you say your name was?”_

> _I stammered, “I… um… I didn’t.”_

> _“Then what is it?”_

> _I was tempted to lie, but somehow my real name came out anyway. “Theresa.”_

> _“Theresa what?”_

> _“Theresa Lovejoy.” All I wanted was to get away. “Look, I’m really sorry…”_

> _“No.” He sized me up with his dark, appraising eyes. “I like it.”_

> _My ears burned under my hair, and I was sure my cheeks were cherry-red. I’d never seen eyes that color before. Not brown. Black, with flecks of gold. As much as I wanted to swallow my embarrassment, now I couldn’t leave. I’d known him for five minutes, and he was already doing unspeakable things to me._


	5. Chapter 4

On the shores of St. Lucia as the sun went down, 47 stood by a wooden bench as the tide rolled in and out.

The pristine beach stretched out before him at the bottom of the hill, and a gentle breeze rustled the palm trees and bumped the boats against the dock. Behind him, a three-story resort glowed and bustled with life, as tourists lounged in white egg chairs and strolled back and forth from the bar.

47 folded and unfolded his arms behind his back, and checked the time once - _5:32_ \- then again - _5:33._ Finally, his phone vibrated in the lining of his white sport coat, so he pulled it out, pressed the call button, and held it to his ear.

“Diana,” 47 said. “Has the rest of the intel come in?”

“It has,” Diana answered. “Sorry to keep you waiting this long.”

“What was the problem?”

“I’m not sure. The middleman was holding out on us.”

“And what happened?”

Diana smirked. “Let’s just say I put the screws on them.”

47 eyed the huge, sparkling yacht out in the harbor, then peeked over his shoulder as he heard someone walk by. Back at the office, Diana shook a bottle of blood-red nail polish, then unscrewed the cap and brushed the excess on the rim.

“Your target is Joris Houterman, CEO of Doelpaal, a venture capital firm based out of Johannesburg. With investments in the tech, mining, and film industries, he’s established himself as a useful asset to the world’s elite.” Diana started on her left-hand nails with short, dainty strokes. “However, he ran into controversy earlier this year with the head of one of his production companies, Ethan Blake. Blake was accused of misconduct with thirty actresses over twelve years - and when Doelpaal didn’t cut ties, many felt Joris had shown his hand.”

47 circled the bench and let Diana explain.

“But the client is closer to home: Agnesa Houterman, former Miss Universe from Albania and Joris’ wife. She married him in 2012. He was 59. She was 24 - and after the business with Blake, she’s ready for her inheritance.” Diana dunked the cap in the bottle and painted her thumb. “Tonight, he’s throwing a launch party for his newest venture on that yacht. Thankfully, we were able to get you on the guest list this time.”

“Am I under Tobias Rieper?”

Diana grinned. “Of course you are.”

“You’d think they’d know by now.”

“People never notice what’s right in front of them.”

On cue, a young couple in green Hawaiian shirts giggled and sidled up to 47’s bench. They dug in their bride-and-groom-themed backpacks and pulled binoculars out, and gazed at the sky while a pelican stole a sandwich down on the beach.

“I don’t think eliminating Houterman will be a problem for you. The trick will be getting back to shore before anyone knows he’s dead.” Diana lay her right hand down and picked the cap up with her left. “As soon as someone finds out, the boat will go into total lockdown. If they see you ride away, your cover will be as good as blown.”

47 stepped away so the tourists wouldn’t hear. “Of course.”

“A showy accident death is probably out for this one.” Diana manhandled the brush around her right pinky. “On the other hand, Agnesa has given us Houterman’s fatal flaw. He’s an alcoholic, and from what the tabloids say, a social drunk.”

“All right.”

“He’s not afraid to invite his guests up to his private rooms. Make of that what you will.”

47 watched the pelican eat. “I always do.”

Diana wrestled the last of the polish onto her other thumb, then huffed and dabbed a cotton ball around her cuticle. As she began the second coat, a message pinged on her screen, so she stuck the brush back in the bottle and read the new intel.

“Oh, dear.”

47 paced down the sidewalk. “What’s wrong?”

“I just got an update on the Port Castries ferry line.” Diana hunt-and-peck typed and clicked to bring the report up _._ “There’s a problem with refueling the boats to Martinique and Guadeloupe. All outgoing trips have been canceled until they can sort it out.”

“What about Agency transport?”

“It’d be too conspicuous.” Diana gingerly took her damp nails off the keyboard. “I’m sorry. It seems you’ll be stuck on the island once the job is done. I’m not sure what to tell you. You’ll just have to keep your head down.”

“I’ll be fine,” 47 told her. “I have the book in the safehouse.”

“Wait, _the_ book? _Death and Orchids?”_

47 veered away from a policeman. “That’s right.”

Diana sat up straighter. “Really?”

47 stuck his hand in his pocket. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” Diana unscrewed the cap again. “I didn’t think you’d take to it.”

“I started it. I’m going to finish it.” 47 stared at the coastline. “You know me. If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well.”

“You really don’t have to.”

“I should. I’m already sixty pages into it.”

“Out of how many?”

“Six hundred.”

“Oh.” Diana looked stricken. “You’re going to be at this for a long time.”


	6. Chapter 5

Three days later, on a dark and stormy New York night, 47 hunkered down in a safehouse with his nose in the book.

He curled up in his socks and shirtsleeves on a gray studio couch, under walls with peeling paper and a plain, swing-arm floor lamp. Across the room, the news played on the old cathode-ray TV, droning on and on as rain pounded against the window.

_The body of Joris Houterman, South African venture capitalist, was found aboard his yacht off the coast of St. Lucia two days ago. Sources say a cleaner found him in the wardrobe of the master bedroom, with a single wound to the throat that suggests strangulation by ligature._

47 set the book down and swung his legs off of the couch, and reached for the carton of takeout lasagna on the coffee table. He dug through the layers of beef and ricotta with his plastic fork, and he took small, well-mannered bites as the news report went on.

_Police encourage the public to hold off on theories until they release Houterman’s autopsy results. But between the suspected murder weapon and unusually clean crime scene, law enforcement says they haven’t ruled out the work of a professional._

47 picked up the remote and turned the TV down, then set it beside the takeout bag and swept the book into his lap. He pushed the scalding noodles back and forth to let the steam out, snuck another bite, propped his feet up, and read on.

> _When I opened the leatherbound menu, my heart skipped a beat. I didn’t recognize most of the names, but the descriptions were more than enough. Handmade pasta? Fried polenta? Veal and capers? Chicken and crimini mushrooms? It made my mouth water just thinking about it. Suddenly, I understood why some women moaned when they ate. I felt like moaning just reading the menu, and I hadn’t even gotten to the desserts yet._

> _“Good evening, sir.” A waiter came up to our table. “It’s wonderful to see you again. May I take your order?”_

> _“We’ll start with the Oysters Rockefeller, Italian style,” Vincent said. “Easy on the sambuca. Heavy on the spinach and breadcrumbs. Then I’ll have the linguine all'Amatriciana.”_

> _The waiter nodded. “Very good.” He turned to me. “And for the lady?”_

> _“I’d like the…” I began._

> _Vincent cut me off. “She’ll have the linguine all'Amatriciana, too.”_

> _I sat back in my chair and blinked as the waiter scurried off. I’d never had a man order for me before, and certainly not with that much force. For a minute, I was taken aback. I wasn’t sure that I liked it. I’d been craving chicken, and I didn’t even know what “all’Amatriciana” was. But Vincent knew the restaurant better than me, and he probably knew food better than me, too. What did it hurt to do as he told me? I could have chicken at home._

> _“I should warn you, Theresa.” Vincent sipped his wine. “Not every woman can handle me.”_

> _“What do you mean?” I snickered. “You’re too broody for them?”_

> _Vincent laughed darkly. “You’re cheeky. I like a girl with a mouth on her.”_

> _“Oh, yeah?”_

> _“Yeah.”_

> _“I bet you’re wondering what else I can do with it.”_

47 tilted his head like a dog, but kept going.

> _Oh my god, I thought. Why did I say that? Now he would think I was a slut. Or maybe that was what he liked. Slutty? Confident? What was the difference? I couldn’t deal with big, philosophical questions that night. What mattered was that Vincent had ordered my dinner, which was more than I’d ever dreamed of._

> _“Heh.” Vincent laughed again, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “All right, Theresa. I’ll cut to the chase. I have needs. I need a woman who can be my muse. Even when the muse needs to be tamed.”_

> _Suddenly I felt timid. “What does that mean?”_

> _“Art is suffering.” Vincent gripped the stem of his glass. “Pain. Dominance. Passion. I need a woman who understands that.”_

> _“Well, I… maybe I like that.” Before I knew what I was doing, I bit my lip. Damn! I thought. Why did he make me do things before I could stop myself? “Besides, maybe not every man is firm enough to handle me.”_

> _“You should be careful, saying things like that.” Vincent glared at me. “I might act on them.”_

> _I couldn’t tear myself away from the hunger in his hungry eyes. I’d never seen a man look at me like that. It was carnal. His gaze could start wars and tear cities down. I’m not a salad woman. I’m a full meal, and he wanted to devour me. He was a wolf, and I was lasagna steaming on his plate._

47 sat up straighter and straighter as he read to the end of the paragraph, and he gave his half-eaten lasagna an uneasy, sidelong glance. He blinked a couple of times as he let everything sink in - but once again, he reached for his fork and pressed on to the next page.


	7. Chapter 6

In the old Alpine enclave of the Casino St. Moritz, roulette wheels clacked and slot machines jangled up and down the halls.

Outside, a blanket of blue-white snow fell on the evergreen trees, and a helicopter buzzed over the golden mansard roof. Inside, guests checked their coats and furs as their black cars drove off, and their diamonds and sequins sparkled as they took champagne from silver trays.

In the card room, five players gathered around a baccarat table, and the dealer called out their totals as they turned over their cards. And 47 watched them from the smoky, red-tinged lounge, lurking by an empty armchair with his phone in his hand.

 _“Carte,”_ one of the players called out.

Another turned over his cards.

 _“Huit à la banque,”_ the dealer said, and swept the cards away.

“Do you see them?” Diana asked from her chair on the yacht.

“No,” 47 answered. “I don’t think they’re here yet.”

“Strange. I have camera footage of them entering the hotel.” Diana frowned. “Keep looking. Don’t stray too far from your current vantage point. I’ll try to figure out what they’re up to.”

47 peeked at the game again. “All right.”

As the gamblers played their next round, a woman and two men came in, glimmering in a gold sheath and too-shiny satin lapels. They sashayed in between the tables like models on a runway, and 47 craned his neck to get a better look at them.

“There they are.”

Diana perked up. “You see them?”

“They just came through the doors.”

“All right.” Diana switched to the main floor camera. “I’ll give you the rundown.”

47 stepped away from the chair and straightened his bow tie, and his tuxedo jacket swished as he glided toward the doorway.

“On the left is Jacob de Vries, photographer and coder extraordinaire. He’s the brains behind the operation, and the one who keeps the books.” Diana panned between the thin-faced man and the woman in pancake makeup. “In the middle is Angela Koenig, professional beauty guru. Charming on camera. In real life, a despot.”

“The honey trap.”

“Right.” Diana inched the camera over to the man with gelled brown hair. “And on the right is Felix Mulder, the public relations man. He writes the copy and makes the deals. Everything goes through him.”

47 waited for the floor manager to leave, then nudged his foot through the doorway and studied how the targets moved.

“Officially, these three are social media influencers, worth a fortune in product placement and photos of their lavish life. But their dossier shows their finances are all over the place, with accounts in Andorra, the Grenadines, and here in Switzerland.” Diana fired up six account statements on the other screen. “You’re smart, 47. Does that sound like honest money to you?”

47 started down the hall. “No.”

“I didn’t think so.” Diana replaced the bank statements with a screenshot of their hotel bill. “The three are here to take part in a high-stakes poker tournament, with other figures like Sheikh Al-Ghazali as honored guests. But an inside source tells me that they’re planning to rig the game, through a mix of card-counting and a mole on the casino staff.”

“What?”

“Alone, they’d be easy targets. But they’ll be difficult to separate. Take your time. Be careful.” Diana minimized the camera. “There are a lot of eyes on this one.”

 _“Carte,”_ the baccarat dealer called again. _“Cinq à la banque.”_

47 kept walking down the rug with noiseless, measured steps.

“Why didn’t we know this?” He asked.

“Know what?”

“About rigging the game.”

“Another stingy client.” Diana tapped her lip in thought. “First Houterman, now these three. I’m doing far too much legwork. I wonder if I should tip the board off.”

“Don’t. Just keep an eye on it.”

“Good idea.” Diana closed all the data except for the map. “Now, I’ll leave you to prepare.”

“You’re helping me blend in.”

“Oh.” Diana raised her eyebrows. “In which case, happy to oblige.”

 _“Les jeux sont faits,”_ the dealer said. _“Un banco de vingt mille.”_

47’s eyes darted from guest to guest, then to the guards at the doors.

“So,” Diana began.

47 answered, “What?”

“Are you still at your airport book?”

“I am.”

“I knew you’d persevere.” Diana kicked her pumps off and put her feet on the desk. “Have they kissed yet?”

“Who?”

“You know, the…” Diana waved her hand - “whatever their names are.”

“Vincent and Theresa.”

“Yes, them.”

“No.”

“What’s taking them so long?”

“Theresa says she doesn’t know what Vincent wants from her.” 47 paced by the slots, but kept the targets at a distance. “She’s not sure if he’s attracted to her, or if he thinks it’s a game.”

“Huh.” Diana looked unimpressed. “Well, I hope they get around to it, before this book holds you hostage any longer than it has to.” She searched up and down the start menu on the unoccupied screen - maps, spreadsheets, a word processor - and loaded a solitaire game. “Sabrina from Accounts Payable has been pestering me for updates.”

“I thought she was reading the book.”

“She is. She wants updates on you.”

“Why?”

“She’s a mystery.” Diana dragged the ace of hearts to its upper-right box. “She also asked ‘boxers or briefs,’ but I’m not telling her that.”

47 lingered by a roulette table. “Tell her I’m on page 128.”

“No mention of the black boxer briefs. Ruthless as usual.” Diana stacked the nine of spades onto the ten of hearts. “It’s not just her, either. Yesterday, I got an email from R&D. Somehow you’ve made yourself the office curiosity again.”

47 hesitated. “What?”

“In hindsight, I shouldn’t be surprised.” Diana smirked. “Jun thinks you’ll get halfway. Kara thinks you won’t survive the first love scene.”

47 spied Angela Koenig’s gold dress across the room - and as he saw her flag a guard down, it clicked.

“Are you betting on me?”

Diana played coy. “I wouldn’t say _officially.”_

“‘Officially?’”

“There’s no bookie.”

47 lowered his eyelids. “Let me guess.”

“If you’re going to ask me whether Sabrina from Accounts Payable put us up to it, I can already tell you she did.” Diana looked pleased with herself as she moved the ace of clubs. “I feel sorry for her already.”

“Why?”

“She doesn’t know you like I do.”

“Which means…”

“I bet five thousand euros that you’d finish it.”


	8. Chapter 7

On the way back to Zurich, 47 rode in the panorama car of a train, with his overcoat beside him and his briefcase under his seat.

The cars sped through the sprawling mountains and over an old, arched bridge, and pine trees and a gentle snowfall flew by his window. He propped his elbow on his armrest and he balanced the book on his knee, and read at a leisurely pace as a conductor strolled down the aisle.

> _Vincent’s studio was on the top floor of an abandoned warehouse, up a dark, winding staircase that we had to climb single file. When he led me through the door, all my senses were overwhelmed. The smell of paint. The dim, moody light. The props and furniture scattered throughout. I didn’t know where to look first. I could’ve spent an hour in every corner. I wondered what the Persian rug had inspired in him, or the red fainting couch, or the strings of pearls hanging from a Victorian lamp._

> _“So what do you want me to do?” I asked, eyeing some black curtains in the corner._

> _“Whatever you want,” Vincent said. “That’s the point. I want to see you.”_

> _I giggled nervously. “What do you mean? I’m right in front of you.”_

> _“I mean_ you,” _Vincent said. “You as you really are.”_

> _Another day with Vincent, another existential dilemma. I didn’t even know what color my aura was or anything. Should I try to be elegant, like a portrait in a museum? Or should I try to be sexy? I didn’t feel very sexy in my jeans and t-shirt. As I paced around the studio, I knew I was both in and out of control. I could do anything, but Vincent was there - watching, guiding me to where he wanted me to go._

> _And then I saw a vase of white orchids sitting by the window. I was sure they were fake, but they were as beautiful as the real thing. What did he get those for? I wondered. I didn’t know why, but they were calling to me. Maybe Vincent wouldn’t expect me to choose them, and that was why they were mine._

> _“I like these,” I said._

> _“Do you?”_

> _“I do.” I set the vase by his easel. “They’re beautiful. I’d like you to paint me with them.”_

> _A smile ghosted across Vincent’s lips. “Good.”_

> _I stepped away from the vase. “Now… what?”_

> _Vincent’s smirk grew bigger. “What do you think?”_

> _“I don’t know.”_

> _Vincent said it in one forceful, unequivocal word. “Strip.”_

47 paused and leaned back against his headrest. There it stood. _Strip._ Pithy. Portending what came next. But like the scenes before it, his curiosity won out, so he settled into his seat and flipped to the next page.

> _With one word, he had me. ‘Strip.’ It burned white-hot in my core. White-hot with passion, dominance, and promises of sin. I’d fantasized about Vincent seeing me naked, but I never thought it’d happen like this. For some reason, my stomach fluttered. His sheer conviction made me shy._

> _I blushed. “You mean… take my clothes off?”_

> _“What did you think I meant?”_

> _I still couldn’t wrap my head around the idea. “Why?”_

> _“Because I told you to.”_

> _“But…”_

> _“Oh, no.” Vincent swaggered forward and wagged his finger at me. “If you can’t take orders, Theresa, this isn’t going to work.”_

> _I hesitantly kicked my peep-toes off and started on my shirt, and the cool air gave me goosebumps as I pulled it over my head. I unbuttoned my pants with shaking hands, and Vincent stared at me as I slid them down - his gaze burning a hole in me, memorizing my every curve. And then I realized: I could leave. What was stopping me? Why didn’t I go? Because I wanted this. I wanted him to see me. I wanted to prove myself to him._

> _When I unhooked my bra, I knew there was no going back. I let it fall, and when my breasts spilled out,_

47 flushed, but continued.

> _I swore my heart almost stopped. Finally, I took off my panties and stood before him, biting my lip. I was naked, but I was empowered. I had nothing left to hide from him._

> _“Well, now.” Vincent looked me over like I was a raw steak, and it left me short of breath. “On second thought, I think you’re going to do just fine.”_

47 heard fidgeting in the seat across from him, so he laid his hand over the page to hold his place and looked up. He found a forty-something woman with short hair and a pink tweed suit, crossing and uncrossing her ankles as she peeked at the book in his lap.

47 furrowed his brow at her, and the color drained from the woman’s face. She folded her hands, turned her head, and tried to act normal. And then 47 noticed something sticking out of her brown handbag - a black cover, an orchid, and the words _Les Orchidées du Mal._


	9. Chapter 8

Deep in the Alberta woods, 47 drove down a dark road, in a boxy gray off-road car with a back seat full of guns.

A thick, unspoiled layer of snow settled on the ground, and it drifted off the skeletal limbs of the aspen trees. Nothing moved or made a sound except for the hum of the engine - a low, monotonous noise that rumbled through the dirty floor.

The car jostled as 47 rode over a pothole, and he watched clouds of his breath billow over the steering wheel. And then his phone vibrated in the stained passenger seat, so he reached for it with his right hand and put it on speakerphone.

“Diana.”

“Good evening,” Diana answered. “How far are you from the house?”

“Hard to tell out here.” 47 squinted out the window. “I’m guessing twenty minutes.”

“I’ll give you the briefing now, then.”

47 nodded. “Go ahead.”

A deer crept out of the bushes, but darted away as he passed.

“Tom and Alicja Verhoeven are barons of the pharmaceutical world, known for chasing incurable diseases and impossible cures.” Diana gazed into a photo of a thin-faced couple on her console. “Their company, Verge, has close ties to the Ether Corporation, and they’re frequent party guests of its CEO, Neleis de Waal.”

47 tipped the wheel and steered the car around a gentle curve.

“Last year, they began research on adrenocortical carcinoma, a rare, but aggressive cancer of the endocrine system.” Diana pressed a key, and a DNA strand unraveled across her screen. “Millions of dollars later, they discovered a gene therapy that would stop the spread of the tumor, making it safe to remove.”

47 clenched and unclenched his hands to shake the numbness off.

“They fast-tracked it for approval, but in the human testing phase, they discovered the drug was too expensive to produce. Fearing for their bottom line, they pulled funding and withdrew the trial. For the subjects, it was a death sentence - and our client was one of them.”

“They want to get even.”

“Precisely.” Diana called up the client’s medical record. “With less than six months to live, they’ve developed a taste for revenge. If they can’t get the treatment they need, they’ll take the Verhoevens down with them.” Three X marks appeared across Canada on her world map. “After three other assassins failed, they’ve come to the ICA. We’re their last resort. It’s time to show them how it’s done.”

47 turned on the car heater and adjusted the dial.

“I’m warning you, 47, this may be a frustrating job. The Verhoevens are extremely cautious, and they know someone is after them.” Diana clicked out of the world map and onto their house’s floor plan. “The client didn’t give us their mansion blueprints, so I’ve had to survey the place myself. There’s only one gate, and the guard likely knows every member of their staff.”

47 nodded in thought and shifted gears. “All right.”

“On top of that, they have lookout towers stationed outside the grounds. If you park too close, they’ll see you. You’ll have to take the last leg on foot.” Diana dragged the map with the mouse and studied the dense patches of trees. “Thankfully, there’s an old campsite about half a mile away. I’ve left a rifle pickup there for you. That may be your only recourse.”

“I’ll think of something.”

“I know you will.” Diana smiled to herself. “I’m just saying. They spent a lot of money on those wide, open windows.”

47 nudged the heater up and headed through a short tunnel, and a lump of snow fell on his windshield when he came out the other end. Diana’s smile faded as she turned to the stack of dossiers on her desk, and she loaded an online database as she opened the one on top.

“You should turn in,” 47 told her. “This might take a while.”

“No, it’s going to be a long night in the office, I’m afraid.” Diana entered the client’s name and planted her chin in her hand. “I’ve just been handed a stack of contracts. Lots of research to do.”

“Research?”

“Yes?”

“I thought the entry-level handlers did that.”

“When a client asks for you, I like to do their background check myself. If I’m not satisfied, I don’t even give them a response.” Diana scanned through the results and pulled up a mugshot. “Some of the clients can’t pay. Some aren’t who they say they are. Sometimes their requests seem like a ploy to draw you out.”

“A trap?”

“It’s rare, but it happens.” Diana scrolled down the page. “People who want to stuff your head and hang it on their wall.” She closed the page, then the dossier, and pushed it to the side. “Most of the time, though, something about the job just feels off. I’ve been in this business a long time. I’ve learned to trust my gut.”

When 47 drove up a hill, the mansion appeared in the distance - a stark, angular edifice jutting out of the rock. Diana reclined in her chair and opened the next dossier, and thumbed through page after page with a dispassionate face.

“You know what I wonder…”

47 checked the rear view mirror. “What?”

“I wonder if _Death and Orchids’_ author is who she says _she_ is.”

47 quirked his eyebrows. “A pseudonym?”

“Maybe more than that. I wonder if ‘Vivienne Westgate’ as we know her exists at all.”

“Surely it’s knowable,” 47 said.

“Well, everything is knowable.”

47 shrugged. “If anyone’s in a position to find out, it’s you.”

“I couldn’t justify putting Agency resources toward that. I’ve gotten both of us into enough trouble as it is.” Diana made a rueful face and input the next client’s name. “Besides, I have to admit, it does give her a certain mystique. ‘The woman behind the curtain.’”

47 tapped the gas pedal. “You would know.”

Diana found nothing in the list of folders that came up, so she loaded an innocent-looking VPN and opened her drawer. She dug through the mess - receipts, gift cards, a spare button for a coat - until she fished a notepad out with a username and password.

“Indulge me, 47.”

“All right.”

“Do they ever explain what the title means?”

“Vincent paints Theresa lying on a fainting couch, naked with a dozen white orchids thrown over her.” 47 eased off the brakes around a hairpin turn. “She claims the orchids represent a sacred part of herself.”

“Oh, god. Is it her…?”

“What?”

“You know…”

“Do I?”

Diana’s eyes bulged. _“Do_ you?”

“Better you say it than me.”

“I knew it.” Diana rubbed her temple and lowered her eyelids in despair. “And Theresa lets him do that after seeing him for… what, six weeks?”

“How do you know that?”

“Sabrina from Accounts Payable keeps me up-to-date.” Diana typed the account and password on the login screen. “Why the ‘death,’ though?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t gotten to that yet.”

“Oh.” Diana sulked. “Well, do tell me when you find out.”

Diana entered the client’s name again and pored over the results, and she leaned back and gently dropped the dossier in the trash. 47 spotted a bent campground sign ahead of him, so he pulled off the main road and maneuvered the car through the snow.

“I thought you weren’t interested.”

“I didn’t _want_ to be.” Diana scowled. “But now I’m on this strange journey with you, whether I like it or not.”


	10. Chapter 9

Later that night, in a dim, wood-paneled motel room, 47 burrowed into a leather armchair with a plaid blanket on his legs.

The radiator clinked and rattled under the frosty window, and 47 curled his feet under himself to keep warm. On the other side of the wall, someone talked at the reception desk, so 47 stopped reading for a minute to eavesdrop on them.

_“Oh, hey, Officer.”_

_“Hey, Florence.”_

_“What are you doing up here?”_

_“Was in the neighborhood,”_ the officer said. _“Thought I’d say hello.”_

_“What brings you out?”_

The officer stalled again. _“Just following up on a hunch.”_

_“Nothing’s wrong, is it?”_

The officer answered, _“I’m not sure.”_

_“What’s going on?”_

_“I’m gonna go check out the Verhoeven mansion up the road. I called them about an hour ago, and nobody picked up.”_

_“Seriously?”_

_“Yeah.”_

The concierge sounded nervous. _“Not even the maids?”_

_“No.”_

_“Weird.”_ The concierge’s voice moved farther away. _“You know what, though? I noticed they’ve been kind of shifty lately.”_

_“What do you mean?”_

_“Not answering the door, and things like that.”_ The concierge walked from 47’s right ear to his left. _“I’ve seen their car going back and forth to the airport a few times. They seem to go out of town a lot.”_

_“Do they?”_

_“I’m sure they just took off again.”_

The officer hesitated, then answered with a grunt. _“Huh.”_

 _“They sure are strange,”_ the concierge observed.

_“Yeah, they sure are.”_

47 heard the lobby door swing as the officer left, and the coffee machine beeped as the concierge hummed to herself. He pulled his knees up under the blanket and scratched his head, and skimmed through his current page until he found where he’d left off.

> _“Don’t move,” Vincent murmured._

> _“Why?”_

> _“You’re going to be my paint palette.”_

> _My heart skipped. “What do you mean?”_

> _“I want to see what you make when we fuck.”_

47 craned his neck back as his cheeks turned pink. He knew what lay before him, and he only had two ways out. He stuck his finger in the next page and almost skipped ahead - but after mulling it over, he furrowed his brow and ventured on.

> _Vincent smeared the red paint on his hands and stroked up and down my thighs. No. Not red. Crimson. Vermilion. Like our passion. Like a matador’s cape. My knees quivered and my toes curled, and my head went foggy with lust. He was the only god I needed, and I was ready to worship him._

> _Vincent pushed my legs apart, and a part of me shook to my core. I wanted him so badly, I could barely catch my breath. He leaned closer and took sumptuous handfuls of my ass, and kissed my_

47 put the book down and stared into space.

He took a moment to gather himself, then picked it up by the spine, and continued a few paragraphs past where it had thrown him off.

> _“Come on, Theresa,” Vincent growled sexily over me._

> _I knelt and wrapped my hand around_

47 put the book down again.

He pinched between his eyes and laid the book on the coffee table, hoisted himself off the chair, and paced around the room. He looked at the book like it would bite him, then sank into the chair, flipped back to the chapter, and took a crack at the next page.

> _“Fuck, Theresa,” Vincent groaned. “Fuck. Good girl. You’re so beautiful. Keep doing that.”_

> _I stroked his_

47 buried his face in his hand.

He cleared his throat, sat up straight, and planted his feet on the floor, and pushed on with the grim resolve of a prisoner digging a ditch.

> _I hummed in my throat as he_

47 turned the book over.

> _throbbing_

47 blinked.

> _moist_

47 wrinkled his nose.

He sighed and ran his hand over the whole length of his skull, but the scene still waited for him like an obscene, unconquered hill. So, in a tired surrender, he turned to the next page, and cradled his head in his hand and prepared himself for the worst.

> _“The-resa. I had no_ idea.” _Vincent pushed my knees apart and licked his lips. “In fact, you’ve been so good to me, I think you’ve earned a reward.”_

47 read Vincent’s last dialogue one more time, and he peeled the corner of the page over to peek at what came next. In minutes, he hunched over and hung on every sordid line, his eyes as big as saucers and his ears tomato-red.


	11. Chapter 10

In a sprawling, space-age mansion just outside Sydney, a crowd of wealthy guests mingled in a stark white atrium.

Around them, a ring of marble columns showed off black market finds - a Benin ivory mask, canopic jars, a dinosaur skull. In the middle, the bright sunlight shone on a twenty-foot-tall moon, rotating on a turntable like a car at an expo.

And in a second-floor closet, 47 unbuttoned his shirt, while a bald technician lay on the floor in his gray boxer shorts.

“Good,” Diana said. “You made it.”

“I took out a camera by the pool.”

“And a technician, I see. He’ll be cross when he wakes up.”

On the yacht, Diana walked on the treadmill on the downstairs gym, with her high heels still on and her chignon still intact. She strolled in place and gazed at the mission screen above her head, and changed the display with her tablet propped on the treadmill controls.

“Now. You’re here for Ignatius Falk, but the real star is the Eos 5, a geosynchronous satellite Falk has been working on for three years.” Diana dragged her fingers across her tablet to zoom in on the blueprints. “It can see a pinhole from 42,000 kilometers over Earth - and understandably, the U.S. and Russia are afraid of it.”

47 folded his shirt in half. “They already have that kind of tech.”

“They don’t want it in private hands, though. Especially not his.” Diana swiped the blueprints aside and loaded a news article. “Last month, the CIA found tapes that prove Falk met with the FSB. He’s peddling it to both sides, for no reason other than causing chaos.”

47 kicked his pants off. “An agent provocateur?”

“A rich boy playing war games? It wouldn’t be the first time.” Diana closed the article and called up Falk’s dossier. “They also found he has a massive hoard of data from both agencies - data he secretly gathered with the Eos 1 through 4. The files are on a flash drive stored in the new unit itself. If that drive goes into orbit, there’s no telling what he’ll do with it.”

47 stuck his feet into the technician’s white jumpsuit, then wriggled his arms into the sleeves and zipped it as fast as he could.

“In short, he’s become a problem. Both countries want him taken out. Kill Falk. Take the flash drive. Smooth things over.” Diana paused. “For now.”

47 stepped into the technician’s boots and brushed himself off, and stuffed his pockets with the fiber wire and coins from his suit.

“Once I have the flash drive, what do I do with it?”

“Good question. Langley wants it recovered. Lubyanka wants it destroyed.”

“What are the ICA’s orders?”

“I say bring it back to us. We’ll let them fight over it.” Diana smiled. “That should be fun.”

47 hung his pants, jacket, and tie on the closet hook, and listened for footsteps outside before he opened the door. He hugged the wall of the atrium and skimmed down the winding stairs, and Diana loaded Falk’s camera feed and roved through his bedroom.

“So,” she marveled. “This is what fifty billion in net worth looks like.”

47 crept into the hall to avoid the guests. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve been doing a little reconnaissance on the other floors. It seems our friend Ignatius has an impressive collection of toys.” Diana picked her tablet up and pushed a button on the controls. “A nuclear-powered concept car. A defense-grade missile drone. He even has a basement with a high-G training centrifuge.”

47 muttered, “All that money, and nowhere to put it.”

“And that’s not counting the GDP that he puts up his nose.” The treadmill beeped as Diana increased the incline a notch. “I must say, 47, he’s given you quite the playground. If you’re feeling sadistic, the possibilities are… infinite.”

47 lowered his voice. “I’m headed toward the satellite now.”

“Oh, good. I do enjoy it when you hoist them by their own petard.”

Diana set her tablet down and doggedly walked on, and 47 took a detour through the empty living room. He hurried down a corridor toward a door with a keycard, and he glanced behind himself to find Van Gogh’s _Irises_ on the wall.

“Diana?” He asked again.

Diana perked up. “Yes?”

“Are you near a search engine?”

Diana opened her tablet’s browser. “I am now.”

47 checked over his shoulder a second time. “Could you look up the most valuable painting ever sold?”

Diana raised her eyebrow. “What does this have to do with the contract?”

“Humor me.”

Diana made another face, but punched it into her search bar.

“The most expensive painting sold at auction is Da Vinci’s _Salvator Mundi,_ for 450.3 million U.S. dollars,” Diana read off. “It was sold through Christie’s to the Abu Dhabi Department of Culture and Tourism. Why?”

“Just curious,” 47 mumbled, and stopped in front of the door.

Diana skimmed through the rest of the article, then closed the tab - and when she put two and two together, she rolled her eyes.

“This is about _Death and Orchids,_ isn’t it?”

“Vincent debuted his painting of Theresa at an art gala. Someone bought it for 600 million,” 47 said. “I thought the number seemed off.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to take the figures in these books seriously. The point is that the people are wealthy, not that the prices add up.”

47 produced the technician’s keycard. “Like Impressionism.”

“Maybe so. Though I’m not sure I’d call Vivienne Westgate the Monet of the written word.”

47 swiped the keycard and wrenched open the door, and slipped in just as Falk’s butler passed by the corridor. He found another technician inside, and ducked behind a shelf. He waited four seconds - five - until the technician turned around. In a flash, 47 leaped forward and grabbed him by the neck, and vaulted him to the ground and squeezed until the man passed out.

47 hoisted the man’s arms up and dragged him off, and heaved him into an Ether shipping crate in the corner of the room. With that taken care of, he crept back to the satellite - and when he lifted the tarp, he found a loose wire near the fuel cell.

47 frowned. “Hrm.”

Diana slowed the treadmill down. “What?”

47 eased the panel up. “Someone’s tampered with the satellite.”

Diana grabbed the treadmill rail. “You can’t be serious.”

“There’s a loose wire.”

“There’s no way Falk would let it go to launch like that.” Diana pressed another button to reset the incline. “I don’t like this, 47. I think someone else is after him.”

“A second assassin?”

“Maybe.” Diana stopped the track. “Listen. Take the drive. Eliminate Falk as soon as you can. Call me when you’re finished.” She stepped off the treadmill. “I’ll get to the bottom of this.”


	12. Chapter 11

The next afternoon, on the gleaming sand of Bondi Beach, 47 reclined in khakis and a short-sleeved dress shirt.

The early December sun beat down on the white-hot sidewalk, and sunburned weekenders shuffled back and forth with their dogs and surfboards. But 47 lingered in peaceful solitude, reading in the shade of an umbrella and folding chair.

> _When I burst through Vincent’s studio door, I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was a wreck. Vincent had turned the entire place upside down. His props lay strewn about like the aftermath of an earthquake, pots broken, leather torn, paint supplies all over the floor. His canvases were everywhere, scratched, taken out of their frames. Some of them had red paint splashed across the half-done backgrounds. He’d even smashed the vase that used to hold my white orchids. It was like a tornado. A tornado of artistic angst._

> _“Oh my god!” I ran through the mess. “Vincent! What did you do?”_

> _Vincent’s voice came from behind a curtain. “Leave me alone.”_

> _I pulled it aside. “Like hell I’m doing that. What’s going on in here?”_

> _Vincent wouldn’t look me in the eye. “This is between me and the muse.”_

> _I stayed silent, more than a little intimidated by him. His voice growled in a way I’d never heard it growl before. Before it was when he wanted me, but this? This seemed darker. A side of him I’d never seen. Maybe there was a reason he’d hid it from me._

> _“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I can’t paint. I can’t even sketch. I see color, but I can’t bring it to the canvas anymore.” Vincent ran his hand through his lusciously-disheveled hair. “That painting of you with the orchids was the last great thing I did. It’s like I get a sliver of happiness, and my art slips out of my grasp.”_

> _God, I thought. Even when he’s miserable, he’s sexy as fuck. But I couldn’t let myself think that, not now. I had to focus on how to help._

> _“Vincent…”_

> _“No.” Vincent’s chest heaved as he turned away from me. “It’s not right. Everything has been perfect since I’ve been with you. But it hasn’t. I’m not suffering for my art anymore.”_

47 heard a pair of tiny, plodding footsteps, and glanced at the mat and umbrella a few steps down the beach. Instead of the young blonde woman digging through her vacation bag, he found a two-year-old boy watching him with wide blue eyes.

“Cayden?” The woman called to him. “Don’t stare at the nice man.”

47 frowned and tried to spell the boy’s name in his head.

“Kayden, sweetie,” the mother called again. “We don’t want to bother him.”

The boy scratched his head, then put his fingers in his mouth.

“Come on, Kaydin. Come here. It’s time to sit down and eat.” The mother walked over, picked the boy up, and put him on the mat. “Daddy’s going to be back in a minute, and we’re going to have our lunch.”

Right on cue, a man in a polo shirt and Bermuda shorts stomped by the sunbathers and sidled up to the umbrella. As the mother unpacked a blue plastic container of toddler food, he set a to-go box on their cooler with a graceless _thunk._

“What took you so long?” The mother asked.

“They wouldn’t let me pay with my phone.”

“All right, well, you’re here now.” The mother gave the boy a spoon. “Let’s just get this show on the road.”

47 tucked his finger in the book to save his place, and listened to them mumble in broad American accents. The father dug into his steak sandwich as the mother picked at her salad bowl, but the boy kept stealing glances at him over the cooler.

“Caedin.” The mother nudged the boy. “Come on.”

The boy ignored her again.

“I know. That’s Mommy’s book,” the mother pleaded. “Now eat your lunch.”

“Wait, ‘Mommy’s book?’” The father glanced at 47, then her. “You read that shit?”

“It’s not shit, _Kevin,”_ the mother snapped. “It’s better than anything you read.”

47 raised his eyebrows and tilted his ear toward them.

“I’m trying to grow our business, Krista. That’s what I _have_ to read.” The father bit into his sandwich with murderous intent. “You know, self-help. Economics. Better business techniques. Commercial real estate is a dog-eat-dog world. I’ve gotta keep up.”

“Are you serious?”

The father balked. “What?”

“Are we still going with that? Are you still going to look me in the eye and say you’re ‘trying to grow our business?’”

“Krista, not here…”

“No. Cut the bullshit. It’s your father’s business, all right? He pays you three million a year to move the pictures around on the website.” The mother stopped to swallow her bite before she went on. “Anyway, the point is, stop making fun of things I like.”

“It’s romance,” the father scoffed. “It’s for fucking cat ladies.”

“Well, maybe it gives me something you don’t.”

The father recoiled. “Like what?!”

“Things I’m not going to say around our goddamn two-year-old!”

The father rolled his eyes. “Look, could you not swear in front of Cayedin?”

“You started it!”

47 felt a vein throb in his neck, so he tuned out.

> _And then something changed in me. I don’t know what, but something snapped._

> _“Vincent…”_

> _Vincent gazed at me with his shining, tortured eyes._

> _“If this is ‘between you and your muse,’ you’re going to have to answer to me.”_

> _Vincent looked confused, but he waited for me to explain._

> _“You’ve been sitting up here painting out all your loneliness for years, and you think that’s what makes you a genius. But it doesn’t.” I squeezed Vincent’s hand. “If all you ever paint from is pain, it’s always going to show. There’s always going to be something missing.”_

> _“Theresa, where is this coming from?”_

> _“I thought it at that very first gala, and I still think it, all right? And it kills me, because your work is so beautiful, but you’re holding yourself back.” I just kept talking and talking, with no idea what was going to spill out next. “You don’t make great art from suffering. You make great art from love. That’s what’s wrong, Vincent.” I cupped his cheeks. “You’re afraid to let yourself love.”_

The family beside him fell into a long, leaden silence, eating their artisanal lunches with simmering disgust. The boy reached for his spoon, and with a clumsy swipe of his hand, it fell out of the plastic container and onto the ground.

“Shit,” he cooed.

 _“Khayden!”_ His mother exploded. “We do _not_ say that word!”

47 pushed his sunglasses up and turned away from them.

> _“I want you, Vincent,” I told him. “But I want all of you. I don’t just want the kinky sex god who can fuck me all night. I want your smile in the mornings after you’ve had your way with me, and I want us to cook for each other, and I want you before you comb your hair.”_

> _Vincent still just stared._

> _In another daring move, I brought his hand to my chest. “Now, come on. If you want your muse, I’m right here. Be alive with me.”_

> _I didn’t recognize any of the words that came out of my mouth. They were bold. Aggressive, even. Almost like I was telling him what to do. Who had passion turned me into, with my robe open and hair undone, sitting on the floor of an art studio in the middle of the night? Something all the live-laugh-love slogans and fashion magazines could never do: A woman who would’ve given anything to comfort the man she loved. I was wild. I was unbound. I was like the mess around us. That’s what Vincent had done. He had turned me into my true self._

> _But before I could kiss him, someone threw open his door. I gasped and scrambled away from Vincent as they barged in. As they came closer, I realized they were wearing police uniforms, and one held up a badge as his partner held up a gun._

> _“Vincent Valmont?”_

> _Vincent stood up. “What are you doing here?”_

> _“We’re arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Dirk Laughton.”_


	13. Chapter 12

On a cool, sunny day in the Dimotiki Agora, 47 sauntered through a sea of bodies and noise.

Butchers and farmers hollered as a busker played a guitar down the street, and a cacophony of sights and smells jumped out at him from the stands. Shrimp. Squid. Octopus. Sardines and mackerel on ice. Souvlaki skewers, stuffed grape leaves, and spice towers that tickled his nose. He kept his hand in his pocket and let the crowd carry him down the aisle, and the shoppers bumped his shoulders as Diana gave him her report.

“Welcome to Athens, 47. How’s the weather over there?”

“Sunny.”

“Good.” Diana crossed her ankles. “You’ll need all the daylight you can get.”

Eight time zones away, Diana lounged in her yacht stateroom, propped up on her bed as the inky black sea rolled by. She took a cup of tea off the metal bed tray at her side, sipped it, and set it down by a chocolate croissant on a plate.

“Your target is a figure by the name of ‘Mobius,’ a war profiteer currently funding the conflict in South Sudan. Officially stateless and devoid of travel documents, Mobius is a shadow - an ascetic who only emerges every few years.”

47 glanced at his watch. _11:49._

“This contract is unusual. It’s going to take some detective work. Mobius is meticulous, and has scrubbed their existence from even black market records.” Diana tabbed through a dossier with rows of question marks. “ICA was unable to find an age, appearance, or background. Their efforts are so thorough, we don’t even know their real name.”

“No one’s that good.”

“Mobius is.” Diana exited the dossier. “But I think we can safely assume there’s a lot of wealth involved.”

47 let his feet take him down a row of produce stands, and he perused the piles of oranges, dates, eggplant, and tomatoes.

“What we _do_ know is that they’re here to see Yiorgos Katsoulakos, a mover, fixer, and tactical consultant to insurgent groups. He’s been linked to everything from ETA to the Somali Civil War, so it’s not clear what he and our mystery target are here to discuss.” Diana dragged a photo into an email, then pressed Send. “The two have planned to meet in the marketplace at exactly 12:01. I’ve sent you a picture of Katsoulakos. You can take it from there.”

“Is Yiorgos a priority?”

“Not yet.” Diana raised her eyebrow. “But in his line of work, I have a feeling it’s a matter of time.”

Like clockwork, 47’s phone vibrated in his hand, so he turned away from the crowd and checked the message Diana sent. In it, he found a mugshot of a thin, glowering man, with a dark buzzcut and a pair of wings tattooed around his neck.

“Hrm.” 47 studied the photo. “Easy man to pick out of a crowd.”

“I know.” Diana loaded her web browser. “Not a subtle choice of body art.”

“I don’t understand that.”

Diana clicked a bookmark called _Spoolie._ “Understand what?”

“Criminals with distinctive tattoos. There’s no way to hide.”

Diana scoffed, “Says the man with a barcode on the back of his head.”

“That wasn’t my idea.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. That was cheap.” Diana crawled through headlines about Capricorns and retinol. “Speaking of cheap, you haven’t mentioned _Death and Orchids_ in a while. You haven’t thrown in the towel, have you?”

“No.”

“I knew you were made of stronger stuff than that.” Diana held her cake plate under her chin and crunched her croissant. “Dare I ask how our lovebirds are doing?”

47 answered, “Not too well.”

Diana dabbed her mouth. “Don’t tell me they’re fighting.”

“Someone’s turned up dead.”

Diana dropped her croissant in her lap. “What?”

“Someone’s been murdered.”

Diana retrieved the croissant and dusted her skirt off. “Who?”

“A man named Dirk Laughton. He’s Theresa’s ex-boyfriend.”

Diana sat up straight. “How did he die?”

“A stab wound to the chest.”

Diana’s eyes lit up as she gnawed the end of the croissant. “And how are Vincent and Theresa mixed up in this?”

“They think Vincent killed him.”

“I don’t believe it.” Diana chewed and swallowed with disgust. “After acres of bad love scenes and tawdry metaphors, Vivienne Westgate finally has me in her grasp.” She flopped back on her pillows and wriggled into the comforter. “Why is Vincent the prime suspect?”

“Dirk’s body was in a death tableau.”

“Was he posed like Theresa’s painting?”

“On his living room sofa.”

“That’s despicable. Keep talking.”

“Theresa told Vincent about her past. She said Dirk was possessive. He beat her. It’s why she left.”

Diana cringed. “Vivienne, please.”

“And he used to follow her home.”

“And now, Vincent. I’m not sure I trust Theresa’s taste in men.” Diana passed over an article called _The Best Perfumes to Embrace Your Inner Witch._ “Well? _Did_ Vincent do it?”

“He could have.”

“Do you think so?”

“Anyone’s capable of murder if the stakes are high enough.”

“Interesting.” Diana scrolled by _I Tried a Yoni Egg and My Next Orgasm Was OMG._ “Honestly, I think Miss Westgate is too shrewd to go through with it. She knows her audience. It would make her readers miserable.”

Just then, 47 saw a man with gray-red hair and a three-piece ivory suit greet a man with Yiorgos’ tattoo. They nodded and shook hands before they took off down the street - and when 47 peeked at his watch again, it read _12:01._

“Diana.” 47 lowered his voice. “I have a visual on Mobius.”

“You do?”

“I think so.”

“All right.” Diana sobered, too. “I’ll leave you to work. Good luck.”

47 tucked his chin and slipped into the crowd, and followed the two men down the long, graffiti-covered street. He took a detour through a jewelry store, then caught up to them. He waited for a motorcycle to pass, then stepped out from behind a van. As he crossed the street, the men stepped into a Chinese trading shop, and 47 ducked in after them and crouched behind a shelf.

“Close up,” Yiorgos said. “We’ll be a while.”

The shopkeeper nodded and shut the doors, then turned the sign, trudged to the storeroom, and lit a cigarette.

47 seized his chance and darted through the empty store, and flattened himself against the wall as he climbed the dusty tile stairs. Yiorgos led Mobius down a filthy, narrow corridor, and into an empty flat littered with server racks and crates.

47 slunk around the corner and into a dark alcove, and he heard the two sit down, open a crate, and talk in hushed tones. He counted off thirty seconds with finger taps on his palm, then took out a coin and flicked it into the bathroom across the hall.

Yiorgos’ chair scraped against the floor. _“What the hell was that?”_

_“Probably the shopkeeper.”_

Yiorgos cocked a gun. _“Go check it out.”_

Mobius skulked down the corridor into the bathroom, and poked around for a minute before the coin caught his eye. He glanced over his left shoulder, then over his right - and just like 47 wanted, he bent down to investigate.

Before Mobius could turn, 47 stepped through the doorway. Before Mobius could blink, 47 unfurled his fiber wire. He snapped the wire around Mobius’ neck, and with one clean crack, Mobius slumped against the sink and went limp on the floor.

47 waited three seconds to see if Yiorgos would react - and in the heavy silence, something occurred to him. He pulled his phone out and nudged Mobius’ lifeless face with his foot, snapped a picture, and sent it to Diana’s personal phone.

 _“Mobius?”_ Yiorgos called. _“What’s going on out there?”_

With that, 47 bolted up the nearby stairs.

He pushed a flimsy door open and emerged on the sun-baked roof, and clambered over stone railings toward the end of the block. When he reached the last rooftop, his phone vibrated again, and with a glance over his shoulder, he took Diana’s call.

“Good god, 47. Do you realize who you just killed?”

“That’s Mobius.”

“That’s Edgar Voortman, president of New Amsterdam Bank.” Diana stared at her reverse image search with an awestruck face. “Why is he moonlighting as a death merchant?”

“I don’t know.”

“Neither do I.” Diana dug herself out of her pillows. “Fasten your seatbelt. I’m going to find out.”


	14. Chapter 13

35 thousand feet above the South of France, 47 sat with his legs crossed in a coach window seat.

The cold, carpeted airplane floor vibrated under his shoe, and the engine roared under the wing as the air vent hissed over his head. A child in the seat in front of him kicked the backrest. A woman in the row across from him typed on her laptop. To his left, a man watched the news on the seat-back TV screen, with the sound high enough that 47 could hear it through the man’s headphones.

_The US and Russia are now calling for sanctions on each other following the death of tech billionaire Ignatius Falk. Falk died last week in Sydney at the launch of his Eos 5 satellite, where a major systems malfunction electrocuted him during liftoff. Both countries are calling the incident an act of sabotage, and the US has called for an investigation committee to step in._

The wheels of the service cart squeaked over 47’s shoulder, and a flight attendant in blue latex gloves pushed it up the aisle. She stopped every few seconds and took the passengers’ drink orders, and the juice and soda cans clattered as she came to 47’s row.

“What can I get you?”

47 held his hand up. “Nothing for me.”

“All right.” The flight attendant turned to his seat partner. “And you?”

The man didn’t move.

She tried again. “Sir?”

The man still didn’t respond.

47 cut in. “He can’t hear you.”

The flight attendant nodded and strolled off.

 _Apart from that,_ the news went on, _both governments are concerned with a flash drive Falk reportedly had in his possession at the time of his death. The drive has not been found, but is suspected to contain classified data from both the CIA and Russian FSB._

The flight attendant chattered with a passenger two rows up, and the child stopped kicking the seat when her mother scolded her. 47 pulled his briefcase out and unpacked his book, closed the briefcase, stowed it again, and opened to his bookmark.

> _“If only you knew how beautiful you look.” Vincent paced around me like a jungle cat, admiring my cuffed legs. “Beautiful. Sensuous. Mine. Are you mine, Theresa?”_

> _I couldn’t answer with the silk scarf in my teeth, but I nodded and made a noise. “Mhm.”_

> _“Hmm,” Vincent hummed, and bent over me and inspected my mouth. “On second thought, I’m starting to wonder if this was a bad idea.”_

> _He loosened the knot behind my head and took the scarf off my lips, and I gulped as my jaw and tongue adjusted to the sudden freedom. Vincent had taken it away. Did that mean he trusted me? Did he know I would stay without anything holding me there?_

> _“In fact…” Vincent hesitated, then unlocked the spreader bar, and his shoulders sank. “Maybe we should do something different tonight.”_

47 scratched his ear and stole a glance across his seat, and he found the man beside him still captivated with the news. So he took his phone out, loaded the internet, and searched ‘spreader bar,’ and shoved it back in his breast pocket like a live grenade.

 _Officials are unsure why Falk would have such a drive,_ the report said, _but if rumors are true, it poses a major threat to international security. Sources on Capitol Hill are worried this will reignite Cold War tensions, and both presidents are scheduled to meet tomorrow to discuss what to do next._

47 waited a minute, and when no one reacted to his search, he bowed his head to look inconspicuous and kept reading.

> _His eyes flashed, and suddenly, I saw more than the Vincent I had always known. I saw the sensitive boy he must have been once, instead of the forceful man I’d met. Did he need me? Really need me? The idea set my insides on fire. He was open. Human. For lack of a better word, he looked… vulnerable._

> _“Aren’t you going to be my master, like you always do?”_

> _“I don’t think so.” Vincent turned up his eyebrows. “I want to. I love seeing what a good girl you can be for me. If I could, I would. But maybe that’s not what I need right now.”_

> _In the moment, I didn’t really understand what he meant. But I was so desperate for his touch, I would’ve done anything he asked me to. Vincent put his finger under my chin and lifted it up, and I slowly, awkwardly stood, my legs shaking like a deer._

> _“Go on,” Vincent told me. “Tell me to lie down.”_

> _“I…” I paused - “I can’t just order you around.”_

> _“Are you disobeying my orders?”_

> _“A-all right,” I stammered. “Lie down.”_

> _With that, Vincent lay on the floor, and I lowered myself into his lap._

> _My head swam as I took in the poetic sight of him. Holy shit, I thought. This must be how he thinks about me. My eyes roamed over his washboard abs, the curves of his Adonis belt, his chest heaving, ready for all the pleasure I had to give. His eyes gazed into mine like a prayer. Would I do it? Or would I be disobedient? Somehow it felt forbidden, though I knew it was what he asked._

> _And then, as I straddled his hips, it all dawned on me. I realized Vincent wasn’t the only one who could call the shots._

47’s eyebrows hiked up his head as he turned the page.

> _“Are you thinking about me?” I asked. “About how good I look up here? I could make you do anything, you know. I don’t have to take orders from you.”_

> _“Theresa…”_

> _“You look so fucking hot down there.” I sized his chest up like a piece of meat. “I can’t believe we didn’t do this earlier. You’re such a good fucking boy.”_

> _“Theresa, please.” I could tell Vincent was biting back a laugh. “You’re not going to get anywhere if you keep talking like that.”_

> _I realized how stupid I sounded, and shame burned in my core. But somehow, the shame fueled me. It made me want to prove myself. As I looked around for what to do next, I noticed we were near the props for his last still life - an antique table, a knife, and a silver punch bowl full of fruit._

> _“Stay there,” I said._

> _Vincent bit his lip sexily. “All right.”_

> _I stood up one more time, walked over to the bowl of fruit, and dug through it. Oranges? No. Grapes? No. I had something very specific in mind. I took the knife and the grapefruit, walked back, and sat down again._

> _“Theresa?” Vincent looked a little afraid. “What are you doing?”_

> _“I’m hungry.” I lowered the grapefruit. “And you look delicious.”_

47 murmured, “Grapefruit?”

The man beside him turned. “What?”

47 glowered back at him. “What?”

The man took his headphones off. “What?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

The man squinted at 47. “You didn’t?”

“No.”

The man eyed him in disbelief, then put his headphones back on. “Huh.”


	15. Chapter 14

On a mild, moonlit night in Rio de Janeiro, 47 peered through a rifle scope on the roof of the Municipal Theater.

In a hotel across town, Diana stood in a steamy bathroom, with a towel tied around her middle and a heat-flushed face. She groped along the marble counter until she found her earpiece, and dried the inside of her ear out before she stuck it in.

“47,” she said. “How’s the situation over there?”

“Narciso Ribeiro is down.”

“Good.” Diana stepped out of the bathroom. “I’m reconnecting now. I’ll be with you in a minute. In the meantime, Joaquim Correia is next.”

“I’ll have a visual on him soon.”

Diana grabbed her tablet off the damask wingback chair, then carried it into the bathroom and set it by her makeup bag. She turned it on, unlocked it, and loaded her tracking map, and stared at it until the other target and 47 popped up.

“What’s the plan?”

“I set an accident trap for him. He didn’t take the bait.” 47 adjusted the heavy stock on his shoulder. “I have a good vantage point on the southwestern rooftop. When he comes out, I’ll shoot.”

“In plain sight?”

“It’s my only choice.”

“When’s he coming out?”

“It doesn’t matter,” 47 answered. “I have all night.”

“All right.” Diana looked skeptical. “I trust you. But be careful.”

47 lingered in the silence for a long minute, and a breeze blew over his jacket collar and whispered in his ear. A fat gray pigeon landed on the iron rail in front of him, and for a moment, they sat together before it flapped away.

“You’re quiet,” 47 said.

“Just letting you concentrate.”

“Don’t bother.” 47 fiddled with the scope. “All I can do is wait.”

Diana patted her face. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were bored up there.”

“It’s shooting.” 47 left the scope alone. “It’s an inelegant art.”

Diana chuckled to herself. “Sounds like my work on a good day.”

47 repositioned the rifle on his knee. “It does?”

“This may surprise you, 47, but I have a boring job. It’s the travel and political intrigue that make it interesting.” Diana uncapped her toner bottle, closed her eyes, and sprayed herself. “If it weren’t for you, I’d be a wealthy woman who makes phone calls.”

“Glad to be useful.”

Diana sighed. “No, I shouldn’t complain.”

“I understand,” 47 mumbled.

Diana’s face softened. “Do you?”

47 stared into space. “After a few years, they all die the same.”

“Well.” Diana unscrewed a small vial of clear serum. “Then it’s good we have things like _Death and Orchids_ to keep it fresh.” She tipped her chin up and dotted her cheeks and forehead. “How’s the investigation?”

47 shifted his weight. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t?”

“They talked about it for eight pages, then went to bed again.”

Diana’s shoulders drooped. “Oh.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I am.” Diana sulked. “I thought Miss Westgate was onto something there.”

A man stormed out of the theater and stomped down the front steps, and 47 perked up and eyed him through the scope. He zoomed in on the man’s features, but found someone else instead, so he lowered the rifle barrel and relaxed again.

“Honestly,” Diana grumbled. “Don’t they have time for anything else?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do they do anything other than have sex anymore?” Diana blended the dots of serum into her face. “You’d think of all things, a murder case would slow them down for a while.”

“Theresa calls it ‘making love.’”

“Excuse _me._ Very well.” Diana rolled her eyes and curled her lip, then went on. “Regardless, I’m losing track of what they have and haven’t done. The paint palette…”

47 added, “The beach.”

“The rooftop garden?”

“The ice.”

Diana kept going. “The leather swing, the candle wax, the riding crop...”

47 chimed in again. “The grapefruit.”

“I knew I was forgetting one.” Diana brushed off ‘grapefruit’ without so much as a flinch. “I’m beginning to understand why it’s six hundred pages long.”

47 tweaked the scope again, and Diana reached for her eye cream.

“You know, I should commend you,” she said.

“Should you?”

“You’re brave to get this far.”

“Am I?”

“Of course.” Diana smudged the cream under her left eye, then her right. “Suffering the slings and arrows of outrageous fornication by yourself.”

47 shrugged. “I don’t mind it.”

Diana opened her moisturizer. “You don’t?”

“I think the author is saying something.”

Diana frowned with morbid interest. “Go on.”

“Theresa tells Vincent about her unhappy family life. Her father was angry. He left her mother when she was eight years old.” 47 pulled away from the scope and cleaned the lens with his thumb. “Vincent represents something she never resolved in herself. Dominance. Possession. The safety of a violent man.”

Diana nodded, utterly nonplussed at him. “Is that so?”

“She wants Vincent because he has the power to destroy her. It’s eros and thanatos. Pain is the only love she understands.”

Diana blinked. “And what, pray tell, is Miss Westgate saying here?”

“Our baser instincts always catch up to us at some point.”

Diana didn’t answer.

47 asked, “What?”

“Just not what I expected from you.”

47 rested his chin on the rifle. “I have a lot of time to think.”

Diana slathered moisturizer up and down her face, and 47’s gloves squeaked as he tightened the silencer.

“Are we breaking protocol?” He asked.

“By what?”

“Talking.”

“About what?”

“Paint palettes.”

“Well, Miss Westgate has brought us here, phallic brushes and all.” Diana worked her moisturizer down to her collarbone. “Besides, I _did_ stab you once.”

“I survived.”

“I know. But still.” Diana blotted her hands. “I think we set ‘protocol’ aside a long time ago.”

Just as Diana finished, 47 spied Correia through the scope - a short, balding man in a tuxedo scarf and overcoat. He sat up straight and eased the rifle over the railing, and Diana let go of her towel as her tablet beeped.

“Wait.” Diana scanned through the theater’s camera feeds. “Wait, I see something.”

47 zoomed in on Correia’s head.

“An extra guard detail just arrived near the theater.” Diana zeroed in on three cars that parked across the street. “They’re not on high alert yet, but they’re all watching the square. Two are closing in on Correia. I think they’re going to escort him off.”

“This doesn’t make sense.”

“No. It doesn’t.” Diana planted her palm beside the sink. “It’s almost like they expected him to come out by himself.”

47 bent his finger around the trigger and inhaled.

“As soon as you land that hit, you _have_ to get off the rooftop. The guards can’t see your position, but they’ll know where the shot came from.” Diana splayed and twisted her fingers to shift the camera view. “There’s an Agency transport vehicle parked at the back of the building. You can use the panic to get there unnoticed.” She clenched her fists. “Good luck.”

47 paused, then let the air out of his lungs. The reticle rose. He froze. He waited two seconds. He fired. The crowd around Joaquim screamed, and a flock of birds flapped off the dome - and 47 dropped the rifle and bolted across the roof.

A siren blared on the street as the bystanders scattered like rats, and the shingles clattered under 47’s feet as he ran. When he came to a short ladder, he hoisted himself up. When he reached the service door, he flung himself inside. He darted down the maintenance stairs, then leaped out the back door, and dashed down the cobblestones - past motorcycles, past shrieking throngs - until he spotted a black sedan in a cramped alleyway, dashed to it, flung the door open, turned the keys, and drove off.

“All right.” 47 fastened his seatbelt. “I’m out.”

“Good.” Diana wiped her brow. “I’ll tell Sabrina to wire your funds.”

47 locked the doors and leaned against the headrest, and he took a breath to gather himself and turned onto the street. A police car squealed by with an ambulance in pursuit - and as he merged into traffic, Diana chewed her lip in thought.

“47?”

47 rolled up to a stop sign. “What?”

“Does something about the last few jobs seem… not quite right to you?”

“How?”

“I don’t know. We’ve just had problems we don’t usually have.”

47 said nothing.

“Never mind.” Diana shook it off. “I’m being paranoid.”


	16. Chapter 15

The next day, 47 lounged in the golden shade of the boxed-in outdoor section of a cafe.

A few blocks down the street, policemen in light blue shirts directed traffic away from the Municipal Theater. A strip of tape stretched past the main steps and out to the square, and men in suits fussed over the evidence markers on the ground. A military police van rolled by a little too slowly for comfort, and 47 busied himself with his book and the pão de queijo on his plate.

And at the table next to him, a thirtysomething businessman loosened his heat-rumpled tie and picked up his phone.

“Hey, Jax. What’s up?” The man answered in a brassy American voice. “No, I’m in Rio right now, remember? For the merger I told you about.”

47 paused to take a sip of coffee.

“No, _Rio._ You know, in Brazil. Yeah, I forgot it’s their summer, man. It’s hot as shit down here.”

47 wrinkled his nose as the coffee scalded his tongue, and he blew a cloud of steam off the top before he set it down.

“Hey, listen, uh,” the man continued, “I’m actually glad you called. While I’m here, I’ve got something I want to talk to you about.”

The voice on the other line answered in a garbled fuzz.

“Am I interrupting anything, or do you have a minute?” The man asked. “Yeah, like… yeah. Are you alone in the house? This is serious.”

47 peeked over the top of the dust jacket.

The man’s tone darkened. “I think Becca’s cheating on me.”

47 retreated behind the shield of the book, but kept his ears sharp to listen to the call as he read on.

> _“Vincent?” I asked, as I stepped through his studio door._

> _Vincent just stood at his easel, working without answering me._

> _“Vincent, oh my god,” I said, and before I knew it, I was hurrying toward him. “I’m so glad you’re home. When I heard you posted your bail…”_

> _But when I saw what Vincent was painting, I stopped dead in my tracks._

> _Vincent had painted another nude woman, like he always did, but this one was holding the blood-soaked head of a man with Dirk’s haircut. She stood in front of a black background with a heavy red drape, and she glared at the viewer as she pushed her long, tangled hair out of her face. The woman’s eyes were dark. Vicious. Like she was hungry for blood. It made my stomach turn. I wasn’t sure I wanted to look into them._

> _“Vincent?” I repeated myself. “What are you doing in here?”_

> _Vincent set his palette down coolly. “What does it look like?”_

> _I looked the painting over again, still wary of it. “I don’t know.”_

> _“You told me to paint with love,” Vincent growled. “So I did.”_

“No. Yeah, no, I’m not paranoid. She’s been acting weird.” The man planted his elbow on the table. “Yeah, for like two weeks.”

47 set the book down and picked his coffee up, tried it, and took a larger sip when he found the heat more bearable.

“Okay, so, a couple weekends ago, she went out,” the man said. “She said she was grocery shopping. Yeah, she came back with groceries, yeah. But she was gone for a long time. No. No, her nails weren’t done. I looked in the trash for receipts, but she’d already taken it out.”

A waitress came out to serve another guest their lunch, and 47 cut into his bread with the side of his fork.

“So then after dinner that night, she went straight up to our room. I went in there an hour later and she was like, really deep in her phone.” The man scowled into his latte as he explained. “When I started talking, she jumped and put it down. It was like she was doing something on it she didn’t want me to see.”

The voice on the other line rambled for a minute.

“Yeah, but it’s not just that.” The man jabbed his finger on the tabletop. “The next weekend, she wanted to stay home when we went to the beach. And then she started getting touchy about her personal space. I was working on the sink and I needed the flashlight we keep in her drawer, and she was like, super insistent that she go get it herself.”

The voice responded.

“I… what?!” The man ran his hand through his frosted hair. “It’s not a toy, man. We’re married. She doesn’t need one of those.”

The young woman at the nearby table must have understood, because she raised her eyebrows and tucked her chin to stifle a laugh.

The man let go of his head. “Look, she’s hiding _something,_ all right?”

The voice chattered at him again.

“Because she mentioned a guy named ‘Vincent.’”

47 polished off the almost-eaten bread ball on his plate, slid the book out of his lap, and continued on to the next page.

> _I gazed at the painting again, half in horror, half confused. I didn’t understand. It didn’t look like any kind of love to me. I wanted to ask Vincent what it meant, why he had done something so strange. What was going on in his mind? Maybe I didn’t want to know._

> _“You know, I keep thinking about him.” Vincent’s voice was forebodingly ominous. “The way he carried himself. His face. His smug fucking face. I keep thinking about all the ways he hurt you. Made you afraid.”_

> _A shiver ran down my spine. “Vincent? What are you talking about?”_

> _“I met with him.”_

> _Another shiver came, colder this time. “You… met with Dirk?”_

> _“I did.” Vincent stepped away from the easel. “The night before he was killed.”_

> _My stomach turned. Now I needed answers, no matter how much they hurt._

> _“What?”_

> _“I had a private investigator look into your relationship. I found out every last detail. What he did to you. Why you left.” The floor creaked as Vincent paced closer and closer to me, and I noticed his chest heaving under the open collar of his shirt. “When you told me about your past after he died? I already knew.”_

> _A lump rose in my throat. “You mean, you had me checked out? Why?”_

> _“I called Dirk and told him to meet me in an abandoned parking lot. I said I had money. Friends in high places. I told him you were mine.” Vincent landed hard on ‘mine,’ like the word was a loaded gun. “I said if he ever tried to do anything to you again, I would fuck him over so completely, he’d wish he was dead.”_

> _I took a shaky step back, and I found myself suddenly short of breath. “You…”_

> _“I didn’t kill him.” Vincent’s voice darkened. “But I wish I had.”_

“The night before I left, I heard her on the phone with her friend. She kept talking about this ‘Vincent,’ like it was a guy she knew.” The man took a flustered slurp of his latte, then went on. “Yeah. Yeah, the friend seemed to know about him, too. He sounds like he’s an artist, or something. She kept bringing up his paintings.”

The guests at the other tables studied their salads and coxinhas, trying harder and harder to avoid looking at him.

“Ugh. Fuck, dude. Where would she even meet a guy like that?” The man’s gold wristwatch gleamed as he dragged his hand down his face. “She told me she deleted that dating app when we stopped swinging.”

The voice scolded him.

“No, I haven’t told my mother!”

47 cut into another bread ball and went on.

> _Vincent’s words hit me so hard, my head began to swim. I hoped I was dreaming. I hoped I hadn’t heard him say what he just said. But it was no dream. I was wide awake, here in the studio that I thought I knew. Now it felt like some kind of surreal prison. I didn’t know him. I didn’t know anything._

> _“Oh my god.”_

> _Vincent brought his feet together and stopped walking. “What?”_

> _I cringed and swallowed the lump in my throat. “You’re out of your mind.”_

> _Vincent was watching me like a snake, waiting to see what I would do next._

> _“First of all,” I said haltingly, “why did you have me checked out? Why didn’t you trust me?”_

> _“I did. I just needed to make sure.”_

> _“Make sure of what?” I held my head. “My blood type? Some kind of weird virgin thing? What the hell did you need to know about me that you couldn’t just ask?”_

> _“Theresa…”_

> _“No. This is your problem.” I gulped and let my hand fall away. I hated every word that came out of my mouth, but I had to tell him the truth. “You know what you are? A control freak. A spoiled control freak. You’re so rich and famous, you think you’re entitled to know everything.”_

> _“You don’t understand,” Vincent argued. “I was trying to protect you. I couldn’t keep you safe if I didn’t know what you were hiding from me.”_

> _“No, I do understand,” I said. “This is why no one gets close to you. We’re just toys. The minute we try, you steamroll all over our boundaries.”_

> _“I wanted to…”_

> _“I let you fuck me on your canvas!” I cried, tears pricking at my eyes._

> _“What…?”_

> _“I gave you everything!” I yelled. “I trusted you! And that’s what you thought of me.”_

> _Vincent reached forward and grabbed my hand. “Theresa, stop…”_

> _I pulled away way harder than I intended to. “Let go!”_

> _Vincent stumbled back from me. I stumbled back from him. The apartness of our bodies was devastating. There was so much air between us. And then I felt a tear come in earnest. A single hot, stinging tear down my cheek. The one time I needed to feel strong, he still made me weak._

> _“I can’t do this.”_

> _Before Vincent could answer, I barged out the door, down the steps and out onto the street and through the pouring rain. It was raining from the sky like it was raining on my face. I didn’t know where to go next - but I knew I couldn’t be with him._


	17. Chapter 16

In the high, yawning hallways of the British Museum, 47 prowled toward the Egyptian sculpture hall.

A crowd of gala-goers roamed through the low-lit wing, from professors in tweed jackets to luminaries in gowns and tuxedos. They pointed at the granite busts and sniffed their glasses of wine, and admired the coffered ceiling and peered into an empty sarcophagus.

And as 47 drew closer, Diana stood in her stateroom, and read from the tablet lying on her pull-down ironing board.

“Your target, Benjamin Stafford, is at tonight’s event to accept the Royal Society’s coveted Buchanan Medal. It awards distinguished discoveries in the field of medicine - in Stafford’s case, a new, efficient cardiac bypass surgery.” Diana tapped onto her map screen, then took one of her blouses off the bed. “I don’t think I have to tell you this, but do watch your step. Those artifacts are priceless.”

“And his life is cheap.”

“You make us sound like…”

“Killers?”

“Well, yes.”

47’s ears tingled as he stepped through a doorway, so he peeked over his shoulder and spied a guard in a black suit. The guard adjusted his sunglasses and scooted his feet apart, then shifted his weight and brushed his hand along the side of his pants. Every time he turned his head, he found another one - one by the bust of Ramesses, one by the Doric columns - and one lurking in a dark corner by a service door, all with faint, but unmistakable sags in their lapels.

“Something’s wrong here,” 47 murmured.

Diana turned her iron up. “What?”

47 hugged the wall and hushed. “All the guards are armed.”

“What kind of weapons?”

“Concealed handguns.” 47 stole another glance at the guards. “One might have an SMG. Hard to tell under his suit.”

“In a museum.” Diana raised her eyebrow. “That _is_ a bit much.”

“I don’t think we’re dealing with a regular surgeon.”

“We’re not.” Diana laid her blouse on the board, then opened the target’s dossier. “‘Benjamin Stafford’ is the alias of Ulrich Jean-Marie, Richard Ekwensi’s physician and attaché to his regime. He served on Ekwensi’s personal staff for over fifteen years, and was privy to some of his most highly-guarded state secrets.”

47 studied the bust of Ramesses, then scooted aside as an aging socialite strolled by.

“In 1996, to reward Jean-Marie for his loyalty, Ekwensi named him governor of the Kanhaar Valley region. His territory included a prison for political dissidents, which Ekwensi let him run with no international oversight.” Diana kept reading as she smoothed the blouse out over the edge. “In the ensuing years, Jean-Marie turned it into an abattoir, subjecting his inmates to experimental torture techniques. When Ekwensi was ousted, Jean-Marie fled to England, resurfaced as a Harley Street surgeon, and settled down.”

“How did no one recognize him?”

“The client sent me some recent photos. It looks to me like he’s had major plastic surgery.” Diana loaded a set of pictures, then turned the blouse collar up. “There’s only one place that does facial reconstruction like that: The GAMA Hospital in Hokkaido.”

47 grunted. “Huh.”

“That tells me two things: That he has a handsome side income, and that he’s willing to take drastic measures to protect himself.” Diana puffed steam from the iron and pressed the collar points. “He didn’t get where he is by being naive or unprepared. Stay sharp. He may have surprises for us.”

47 straightened his back. “I will.”

When 47 reached the glass case with the Rosetta Stone, he spotted Stafford’s brown hair and white dinner jacket across the hall. Stafford took a pack of cigarettes out and tapped a guard on the shoulder, and the two of them sauntered around a corner and disappeared.

“Normally, I don’t comment on the morality of our contracts. But there’s no way to sugarcoat it: Stafford is a war criminal.” Diana swiped to a list of declassified documents. “A UN council has been investigating his disappearance for years, and some of the intel the client gave us is a little too need-to-know.”

“You think someone’s cutting through the red tape.”

“I do,” Diana said. “This is extralegal justice. How you mete it out is up to you.”

47 waited a second, then continued on Stafford’s tail, past a pair of lamassus guarding a narrow corridor.

“One more detail, 47, and then I’ll let it go. The target was an acquaintance of Tom and Alicja Verhoeven.” Diana dragged a photo of all three targets across the screen. “He was also at the opera the night you killed Ribeiro and Correia. He’s quite the jet-setter, isn’t he?”

“He is.”

“That’s what I thought.” Diana scooted the arm of her blouse onto the end of the board. “The intel I received doesn’t tell me how close they were, but they clearly ran in the same circles. Make of that what you will.”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t want to say anything premature. But when people who know each other start dying…”

“Someone’s picking them off.”

“It does seem awfully convenient.” Diana ironed the yoke. “Keep your ear to the ground. You never know what you’ll pick up.”

47 peered left and right to see which way Stafford had gone, then turned on his heel and headed back toward the collections shop.

“Do you see him?” Diana asked.

“He stepped out for a smoke.” 47 eyed the guests behind him. “Should be back in a minute.”

“I shadowed a field agent who was a heavy smoker once. He was sure he’d be head operative by his thirtieth birthday.” Diana unfolded the blouse cuffs and ironed them from the inside. “He died on his eighth contract, a chemist in Azerbaijan. Four shots in the back. The clean room sensors caught the cyanide under his nails.”

“Huh,” 47 remarked. “Not smart of him to leave a tell.”

“I always said it would kill him.” Diana straightened out the sleeve. “Anyway, I’m sure that’s not the only smoke break he’ll take tonight. I know you brought a poison syringe. You might put it to good use.”

47 crept out of the exhibit and into the great court, where shelves of souvenirs lined a towering spiral staircase. Diana finished pressing the blouse and hung it up, and set to work sorting the pile of laundry on the foot of her bed.

“Well?”

“‘Well’ what?”

“Does this seem familiar yet?”

“Should it?”

“A contract at a gala. Life really does imitate art.” Diana adjusted her earpiece and smirked with satisfied mischief. “Now. Where’s my update?”

“Are you going to ask on every job?”

“Of course. I’ve come to expect it.”

47 made a sour face. “Vincent is out on bail.”

“Out on bail for murder?” Diana deflated. “That’s not how it works.”

“I read the investigation scenes. She doesn’t know about knives, either.”

“Now, now. We can’t expect Miss Westgate to have your expertise.” Diana folded three pairs of practical black underwear. “At least I presume Theresa is happy.”

“Not really.”

“She’s not?”

“They’re fighting.”

“That’s a shame. Vincent’s really not so bad.” Diana reached up and tucked a stray hair back into her twist. “Except for the ego… and the possessiveness…” she went on - “and the presumptuousness… and the awful bedroom tastes…” her shoulders slumped - “and the stunted emotions… and the need to always be right… and the way he talks to wait staff…” she curled her lip - “no, I take it back.”

47 frowned. “You didn’t mention that he may have killed someone.”

“Goodness, 47. You don’t think _that_ bothers me.” Diana set the underwear down and shook out a camisole. “All right. I know this job is sensitive. I’ll leave you to work. I’ll tell you if our sources send me any more intel.”

47 checked all the exits as he lingered by the shop, searching up and down for a white jacket. Beside him. No. The staircase. No. A flash over his shoulder? Light from the guide station. Downwind by the directory? A woman’s two-tone dress. He laced and unlaced his fingers and tapped his foot on the floor - and ten endless minutes later, Stafford and his guard came back inside.

But as Diana folded the camisole, her tablet pinged - so she got up, turned the screen on, and went pale at what she saw.

“47. Listen.”

47 followed Stafford again. “What’s wrong?”

“The man in white is a body double.”

47 stopped dead in his tracks.

“It says the real Stafford is disguised as one of the staff. But it doesn’t say what kind, or which wing of the museum he’s in.” Diana glued her eyes to her screen and read the message again. “You’ll have to study all their faces to figure out which is him.”

“That’ll take too long.”

“I don’t care.” Diana chewed her lip. _“Make time.”_

47 wound around the store to catch glimpses of the staff. Another guard with an earpiece. A waiter with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. The more he looked, the more he became aware of the size of the room - the guests’ faces running together, their voices congealing like mud.

And then a janitor passed by in a dark gray baseball cap, with a thin pink facelift scar around the front of his ear.

47 edged closer as the janitor walked into the men’s room. He ducked in after him. He strode past the row of urinals. The janitor set his mop down. 47 reached under his lapel. The janitor opened a stall door. 47 pulled the poison syringe out. In three precious seconds, he grabbed the janitor by the chest, shoved him into the stall, and stabbed him in the side of his neck.

The janitor’s hat fell off and clattered into the next stall, and he crumpled over the toilet with a helpless, fatal groan. The room went silent, and 47 noticed a smartwatch on his wrist - with a flatlining heart monitor on its slim black face.

Diana clenched her fists. “47?”

47 stood up. “Stafford is down.”

“The guards are reacting.” Diana gulped. “They know he’s dead. Get out. _Now.”_

47’s shoes squeaked as he darted out of the stall, and he patted his lapels down and slithered in between the guests. He wove left, right, toward the guide station, behind the directory. Behind him, three of the guards elbowed their way through the crowd. When he reached the donation box, he put a skip in his step, and ducked through the exit just as the guards made it to the bathroom.

Diana drew back from her tablet. “47?”

“What?”

“This is strange.” Diana grimaced. “Your next contract just came in.”


	18. Chapter 17

A few hours later, 47 rode on the lower deck of a dark, nearly-deserted bus to the airport.

On the other side, a student propped her chin on her duffel bag, and an old, bundled-up man slid closer and closer to sleep. The sights of the city flew past - pubs, boutiques, salons - and the yellow glow through the window gave 47 enough light to read.

> _“Theresa!”_

> _I recognized that voice. I would’ve known that voice anywhere. Vincent’s chocolate lava cake voice, echoing over the pouring rain. It couldn’t have been anyone other than Vincent. The thought made my heart twinge. He’d driven all the way to my apartment just to talk to me. But after the way we’d fought, the question was - did I want to talk to him?_

> _“Theresa,” he called again, and I started feeling sick with doubt. I wanted to run out into the rain and leap into his arms. It would be perfect. Movie-perfect. Like one of those blockbuster romance movies that you pretend to think is terrible, but you secretly watch with a tub of ice cream when it’s on cable at midnight. But I also wanted Vincent to apologize, and I knew he was never going to do that. And yet a tiny flame of hope burned in me. Maybe this time would be different._

> _Oh, god, I thought, and chewed my nails. How long is he going to stay out there?_

> _“Theresa?” Vincent called one more time, and finally, it did me in._

> _Wild impulse rising in me, I threw open my bedroom door, and ran out of my apartment in nothing but my negligee. I didn’t put on shoes. I didn’t check myself in the mirror. I didn’t even take my keys. All I could think about was him._

> _I found Vincent on his knees at the bottom of my apartment steps, soaked through his perfect white dress shirt and tight black pants. The rain was pouring and pouring on him, and his sodden hair was in his face. I could even see his pink nipples poking through his shirt. But he just knelt there, never getting up, never moving closer to me. His eyes ached for me so badly, I could barely gaze into them._

> _“Vincent?” I asked cautiously. “What the hell are you doing here?”_

> _“Theresa, please,” Vincent begged me. “Just hear me out.”_

> _In that moment, I wanted to hate him. I really, honestly did. But my heart and soul betrayed me, like the horrible backstabbers they were. All the anger, hurt, and hopelessness of the past week melted away. I couldn’t look at him the way he was and feel anything but love._

No one gawked at 47. No one tried to hide their interest. No one tapped him on the shoulder to bother him about the book. For now, he just existed in a world of his own, and kept reading without cringing at the ungainly words.

> _“You were right, Theresa,” Vincent said._

> _I hesitantly answered, “About what?”_

> _“About everything.” Vincent pawed at his shirt, and the wet fabric ghosted over him. “My life. My art. What I wanted. What I need. I just couldn’t stand to hear it, so I had to push you away.”_

> _I had no idea how to react. I’d never heard a man say that. Of all the people I expected to apologize, Vincent was the last on the list. He’d always been so sure that he was right about everything. And yet here he was on his knees, mud soaking into his thousand-dollar pants._

> _“When I met you, I was like a dog with a new toy. You were my plaything. You fascinated me. That was all I needed you to do.” Vincent got to his feet and brushed the wet gravel off his hands. “You were young. Delicious. I wanted the shape of your hips, your breasts. I couldn’t think about anything except chaining you to my bed.” He paused for a moment to push his dripping wet hair out of his face. “But then you were mouthy. Not like any of the girls I’d had before. You loved submitting to me, but it wasn’t enough for you. And I…” he stammered - “I resented it. Why couldn’t you be like the other ones? Why did you want to reach in and save me?”_

> _“Because you were worth it,” I said._

> _“I_ wasn’t, _though!” Vincent raised his voice sharply, and he stepped forward and grabbed my arms. “I was… I was Vincent Valmont. Tortured artist. Lone wolf. That made me the master of everything. I was always in control. But no matter how hard I fucked you, you had your hand around my throat. You saw through me. You understood me. That was the greatest power move of all.”_

> _“Vincent…”_

> _“I thought all I wanted in life was to be powerful.” Vincent paused to catch his breath. “But I realized I was happiest when I was powerless with you.”_

> _And then I felt it. The burn in my nose. The terrible lump in my throat. My chest throbbed as my heart raced, and I knew I was about to cry again. God dammit, Theresa, I told myself. Not here. Not now. But every part of me was bursting. Oh, fuck it, I thought. The rain will hide my tears._

> _“I love you, Theresa.” Vincent’s hands stroked up to my cheeks. “I love your hair. I love your eyes. I love the way you moan. I love the way you kill me with your kiss. Ensnare me with your touch.” Vincent kept going and going, every word a symphony in my ears. “I love you the way an antelope loves the tiger that eats its heart. I love you the way a city loves the bomb that blows it up. I love you with all the fire of my miserable, wicked soul. All I want is to burn with you. My love. My angel. All I have to give you is everything.”_

In the row across from 47, a young, vagrant punk couple pulled out a phone and headphones and each took an earbud. The man scrolled through the phone, then tapped the screen to choose a song. The woman settled into her seat and cuddled up to him. With a fond, quiet sigh, she laid her head on his shoulder, and he reached over and held her hand as they let the world go by.

This time, 47 found himself unable to look away, so he tilted his chin and observed them as discreetly as he could. The woman’s choker and combat boots. The man’s short, fluffy hair. Their matching leather jackets covered with patches and pins. Their slouched backs. Their calm expressions. Their fingers in each other’s palms, and the way their chests rose and fell together as they breathed in time.

47 watched them until the bus rolled toward a red light, and as it stopped, something almost like wistfulness crossed his face. He turned his head, shut the book, and folded his hands in his lap, and stared into the distance, alone with his suitcase.


	19. Chapter 18

A week later, 47 sat on a marble tile floor, in the sickly yellow light of a cold hotel bathroom.

The guts of a first aid kit lay strewn across the countertop, and his wet, bloodstained shirt hung over the shower rod. In the warm, dark-wood bedroom, the TV played a news broadcast, where an anchorwoman read her report in a calm British voice.

_The opulent streets of Dubai are in chaos tonight after an accident claimed the life of Saudi tycoon Ibrahim Safar. Sources say Safar was in the lobby of the new Equinox Hotel when its chandelier collapsed, killing him and two security personnel._

47 held a needle holder in his ring finger and thumb, and grabbed a pair of tissue forceps in his other hand.

_Instead of seeking help, his bodyguards fired on the nearby crowd, believing the accident to be an orchestrated attack. In an attempt to avoid the gunfire, bystanders spilled into the streets, and the shooting lasted for almost three minutes until police arrived._

47 fumbled with a curved needle and length of thread, and he grimaced as he held it to the long, bloody streak on his side.

 _This is a breaking story, and will be updated throughout the night as our sources on the ground get back to us with more details. Here now at the crime scene is special correspondent Gavin Taylor. Gavin,_ what _is going on over there?_

47 gulped, bent his arm back, and set his jaw, and he lifted up the swollen skin at the edge of the wound. He blinked and grit his teeth - and when he stuck the needle through, he tucked his chin and bit back a quiet, anguished noise.

 _Well, I’m here now in front of the Equinox Hotel,_ Gavin began, _and the mood is still definitely one of, uh, panic and bewilderment. Basically, what we’re hearing is that Safar’s security guards believed the accident to be the work of someone in the lobby at that time._

47 poked the needle through the other end, and dragged the thread through the red, fleshy mess with an inch to spare.

_The Equinox Hotel is in the heart of downtown Dubai, which is a heavily-monitored neighborhood. It’s rich, it’s known for tight security. This kind of violence in the city is utterly unheard of, and officials are worried that its reputation as a tourist haven is in danger now._

47 released the needle and wound the thread around the holder, and took a few seconds to ride the pain out and catch his breath.

 _I mean, I guess my question is,_ the anchorwoman said, _why would they have any reason to suspect this was an attack?_

 _That’s a good question,_ Gavin answered, _and, uh, we really don’t know. The situation is still unfolding, I think we won’t know for some time. There are rumors that Safar was involved in the black market in South Sudan, so it’s possible he had enemies capable of doing this kind of thing._

47 pulled the long end of the thread and made a knot, then started on the next stitch - in, under, out, up, knot.

_But I think what’s important right now is that we not speculate, and, uh, wait for local law enforcement to release a report. A lot of these hotels were built quickly and cut corners on code, so for now, a construction accident is still the most likely cause._

47 hung his head as he made stitch after stitch, and slowly but surely, he sewed the whole ragged wound closed. His phone rang as he set the needle holder back in the kit, and he smelled the dried blood under his nails as he stuck his earbud in.

“47?” Diana kicked her shoes off in her stateroom. “Are you all right?”

47 took another breath to gather himself. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine.”

“I will be.”

“47, tell me the truth. Do I need to send in a medic?”

47 rested his head against the cabinet. “No.”

“All right.” Diana simmered down. “I trust you’re not lying to me.”

“It’s skin deep,” 47 mumbled. “I’m on top of it.”

47 tied the thread off and cut it at the end, and dropped the needle in the kit without washing it off. Diana set her phone down and switched to her own earpiece, then opened her closet and pushed a row of silk hangers aside.

“Do you think you were spotted?” She asked.

“No. Just unlucky.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” 47 checked the wound one more time. “I climbed up on a maintenance ladder and loosened the winch. No one could have seen me do it. I knocked out the upstairs guards.”

Diana’s perfect posture sank. “So you did everything right.”

“I did.”

“Well…” Diana sighed and held her head - “oh, the hell with it.”

47 gathered the supplies around him on the floor, and Diana tugged her black mandarin-collar jacket off her arms.

“I’m sorry.” Diana hung the jacket up. “Sometimes things just go wrong.”

“No.” 47 rubbed his eye. “It’s good to remember I’m vulnerable.”

For a minute, they stayed silent on both ends of the line, until 47 heaved himself up and Diana unzipped her skirt.

“I prescribe a bath, some dinner, and a good night’s sleep. We can extract you tomorrow. You’re safe in the hotel until then.” Diana tried and failed to bring her chipper phone voice back. “Do you have the book with you?”

“I do.”

Diana pushed her skirt to the floor. “How far are you from the end?”

“Fifty pages. They’re closing in on the killer now.”

47 shut the first aid kit and set it on the toilet lid, then took one of the clean white washcloths off the towel rack. He ran it under hot water and squeezed it at each end, and set to work on the bloody handprints on the countertop.

“You know, 47, I have a confession to make,” Diana said. “I have a hard time believing you didn’t know what it was about.”

“Why?”

“You didn’t look at the back before you bought it?”

“No.”

“Surely even you can recognize when something is suggestive enough.”

“‘Even’ me?”

Diana weighed her words. “Well, you are a _modest_ man.”

“I know where children come from.” 47 paused and reconsidered. “Most of the time.”

“I’m just saying. If you have a soft spot for salacious romance novels, that’s your prerogative.” Diana unbuttoned her blouse. “We all have our indulgences. Swiss dark chocolate is mine.”

“I don’t know whether it is or isn’t.”

Diana slid out of her sleeves. “What?”

“You heard me.” 47 stared down at the stained washcloth. “I don’t know.”

Diana bent over and swiped her skirt off the floor - and as she picked her blouse up, she put two and two together.

“Oh.”

47 washed the same spot over and over, his eyes blank and unfocused as he withdrew into his thoughts.

“Do you ever look at people and feel like you’re not one of them?”

Diana put her blouse in the hamper. “I did when I was growing up.”

“Sometimes I think I live on the other side of a glass. I have targets. Assets. I watch people. I kill them.”

“You know me.”

“I know you.” 47 smeared the blood back and forth. “Most days I don’t notice it.”

Diana pinned her skirt to a hanger. “But some days you do.”

“I notice I go weeks without talking to anyone. I notice quiet dinners. Quiet habits. Quiet rooms.” 47 kept scrubbing in slow, aimless circles. “I…”

Diana waited for him.

47 stopped. “Never mind.”

“No,” Diana soothed him. “I know exactly what you mean.”

Diana stuck her thumbs in the waistband of her pantyhose, and 47 finally lifted the washcloth and rinsed it off.

“Maybe it’s for the best,” he muttered.

Diana peeled her pantyhose down. “Why?”

47 wrung the blood out. “Maybe I’m reaching beyond myself.”

“Is that because you’re an assassin…” Diana hesitated - “or because you’re a clone?”

47 said nothing, but the answer hung between them like lead.

“Diana?”

“Yes?”

47 asked, “Do you think…?”

“What?”

“You know.”

“I think you could do anything if you put your mind to it.”

“Be serious.”

“I am.” Diana turned up her eyebrows. “You’ve always been more than the circumstances of your birth.”

47 wrapped his index finger in the washcloth, and Diana popped her bra off and hung it on a closet hook.

“47?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

47 blinked. “For what?”

“It’s really none of my business, but thank you for trusting me with that.”

“I have nothing to hide from you.”

“You’re entitled to some secrets. After all, you know next to nothing about _my_ personal life.”

47 ran the cloth around the counter to clean out the grout, and Diana chuckled to herself.

47 plugged the sink. “What?”

“Nothing. It’s just funny.”

47 filled the sink with cold water. “What is?”

“That a book as silly as _Death and Orchids_ can dredge all these things up.” Diana tugged a black satin robe out of her closet and put it on. “When you started, I thought the whole enterprise was absurd. Now I don’t know what I’m going to do when you finish it.”

“You don’t?”

“You have to admit, it did add some zest to our last few contracts. Killing Dutch celebrities. Dutch venture capitalists.” Diana knotted the tie around her waist, then picked up her pumps. “Dutch death merchants…” she spoke slower and slower - “Dutch war criminals… Dutch pharmaceutical executives…”

47’s ears pricked up.

Diana blanched. “Good god.”

In a swish of fabric, Diana dropped her shoes, and stormed through her bedroom and through the automatic door. She charged down the dark, sterile hallways of the yacht’s upper deck, still in her satin robe and bare feet slapping on the floor.

“Ibrahim Safad was working with the South Sudanese underworld. Edgar Voortman was dealing to both sides of their civil war.” Diana ran through what she remembered as she stomped downstairs. “Benjamin Stafford worked with Richard Ekwensi, dictator of the Congo, which shares a border with South Sudan.”

A young woman with short black bangs poked her head out of her door, and hobbled after Diana in her tight skirt and too-high shoes.

“Stafford knew the Rio targets and Tom and Alicja Verhoeven. Tom and Alicja Verhoeven knew the Ether CEO. Ether Corporation’s headquarters are in Johannesburg, _and_ they were a major backer of Falk’s work on the Eos 5.” Diana marched forward without noticing the woman behind her back. “I don’t believe it. 47, why didn’t I see it?”

“We knew it had to be something.”

“It was _right_ under my nose.”

“Diana?” The woman patted down her bun. “What’s going on?”

“Out of my way, Sabrina,” Diana ordered. “I’ve got work to do.”

Diana slammed her palm on the reader panel beside her office door, and when it slid open, she threw herself into her chair. Her fingers banged the keys as she loaded everything she could think of - files, databases, all the recent targets’ photos - and she stood up from her desk as the data flew across the screens.

“I knew it.”

47 stepped through the bathroom doorway. “What?”

Diana backed away from the desk. “I have another job for you.”


	20. Chapter 19

On a fishing trawler sailing toward a desolate, icy coast, 47 stood at the bow and let the Arctic wind whip his face.

On an Agency base carrier a hundred miles away, Diana barged through the doors of the command center deep in the hold. Operators in black suits hunched over their terminals in the low green light, and their furious clicks and keystrokes followed her as she walked by. She stopped at a ledge that loomed over a pit of server racks, and she switched her earpiece on as the giant screen across the room lit up.

“How’s the ice down there, 47?”

“We just passed North Star Bay.”

“Sounds like you’re closing in.”

“I am.” 47 squinted. “Give me the report.”

“All the contracts you’ve terminated since Joris Houterman were major shareholders in the Vickers Diamond Corporation. Two months ago, the CEO, Mattias Swanepoel, discovered they had double-crossed him - and decided to clean house.”

47 set his teeth and tightened his fur-lined hood, and the Agency boatman in the wheelhouse steered them to the left.

“In late October, around the time you killed Charles Breckenridge, the shareholders stole a set of diamonds from Swanepoel’s personal vault. The set had been found in the nineties, in an infamous conflict mine ten kilometers from the border of then-Zaire and Sudan.” Diana explained as the screen zoomed in on a map of East Africa. “As the only ones with hands-on criminal experience, the trio from St. Moritz likely carried out the actual theft. The set was valued at over three thousand total carat weight and four hundred million euros - to date, the largest jewel heist in history.”

“Why did they need them?” 47 asked. “Falk was a billionaire.”

“Because they weren’t planning to spend the money on themselves.” As Diana spoke, the map zoomed out, and photos popped up across the world. “In the days after the theft, Stafford reached out to defense contractors, while Safar re-established contact with his black market friends. Around the same time, Mobius agreed to meet Yiorgos Katsoulakos, and Falk moved up the Eos 5’s debut as a show of strength.”

47 furrowed his brow. “They were going to start dealing death.”

“And Swanepoel’s diamonds were going to foot the startup costs.” Diana stared at the skull icons that dotted Colombia, Myanmar, and Afghanistan. “With the sale and their personal fortunes, the group would’ve had the funds to invest in arms, alliances, and hiring PMCs. From there, they planned to stoke - or set - fires across the world, propping up regimes, aiding rebels, or selling weapons to both sides. The world’s richest people were about to break into the world’s most lucrative business.”

“And then something went wrong.”

“Joris Houterman sold them out.” Diana leaned forward and planted her hands on the rail. “Not content to share the profits with the rest of the group, Houterman intercepted the diamonds before they made it to Safar. He needed to disappear before the others found out what he’d done, so instead of playing the long game, he looked for a quick payout. Through his media contacts, he found his way to the South Korean mob. A few phone calls later, he had a buyer.”

47 finished for her. “Kang-min Choi.”

“That’s right.”

47 rubbed his hands together. “No honor among thieves.”

“Not these, anyway.” Diana let go of the rail. “When Swanepoel found out, he approached our clients one by one, and had them contact us so they would seem like unrelated jobs. But he withheld crucial intel from each of the dossiers, creating complications that you would have to overcome.”

“He was testing us.”

“He was testing _you.”_ A shadow passed over Diana’s face. “It wasn’t just business. It was a game - one that almost got you killed.”

47 grabbed the guardrail as a wayward wave tossed the boat.

“Full disclosure: This contract is coming from inside the house. I asked the board to sanction Swanepoel for termination myself.” Diana crossed her arms and took a step back from the ledge. “There’s no client. And no paycheck.”

“And they approved it.”

“They did.”

“Why?”

Diana watched the red _TARGET ACTIVE_ flash on the screen. “I told them we need to take care of our best.”

The deck creaked under 47’s feet as he swayed down the starboard side, and he took binoculars out of his pocket and surveyed the coast. Diana nodded to the operator in the chair next to her, and he clicked a box and entered a password at his terminal.

“Now. I’ve done some digging on the base you’re headed to.”

“What have you found?”

“Not much.” Diana studied the map of Greenland that replaced the dossier. “It seems US forces built it during the Second World War to defend Danish colonies from German takeover. But it was hastily abandoned in 1945, and over the next few decades, it vanished from maps and records.” She read the list of data points that loaded beside the map. “However, in the eighties, Atlantic air traffic control started recording private jets landing in its airspace. The closest neighbor is Thule Air Base a hundred kilometers away, so, needless to say, they were suspicious.”

“Sounds like they should’ve been.”

“A lead from 2001 suggested that it’d been restored as a lavishly-furnished bunker - a panic room for the global elite. Rumors say that it contains both food stores and a seed bank, an armory, and room for both security and maintenance staff.” Diana balled up her hand and put her thumb to her lip. “Flight plans show Swanepoel’s plane landed the day you killed Safar. He knows we’re onto him.”

“One last test.”

“Or he realizes he’s been outmatched.” Diana let her arms drop to her sides. “I will leave you to prepare.”

“Thank you.”

“We’ll reconnect when Swanepoel is dead.” Diana turned away. “Good hunting.”

47 didn’t respond.

The mission briefing screen went dark as Diana strode through the doors, and she slipped down the narrow corridor outside the command room. 47 reached for his ear, but when he heard her footsteps, he slid his hand into his coat pocket and stayed out on the deck.

Diana fiddled with her own earpiece. “Are you still there?”

“I am.”

“Good.” Diana lowered her voice as she clanked up a metal staircase. “I have to tell you, 47, I’m not sure what you’re going to find. But I assume whatever’s waiting for you has been assassin-proofed. I have no map, no guard report, and the walls are blocking signals. You’ll be on your own.”

“Understood.”

Diana took a deep breath. “Be safe.”

“I will.”

“Thank you.” Diana swung left after the staircase and opened a hatch door. “So, with that in mind… one more thing before you go.”

“What is it?”

Diana stepped into the sunlight. “You know what I’m going to ask.”

“It’s over.”

Diana’s eyes widened. “You finished it?”

“I did.”

“Well, what happened?”

“Vincent asked Theresa to marry him.”

“And? Did they find the real killer?”

47 answered, “It was Vincent’s mentor.”

“Goodness. Really?”

“He was jealous. He thought Vincent had outdone him.”

“So he tried to frame him for the murder of his lover’s horrid ex.” Diana paced across the deck. “Bravo, Miss Westgate. Agatha Christie would be proud of you.”

“Is that so?”

“No.” Diana rolled her eyes. “All right, she did have me guessing until the end.”

Diana stopped by the life preserver as the breeze ruffled her hair, and when 47 saw the dock ahead, he broke the silence one more time.

“You sound pleased.”

“I’m five thousand euros richer. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Something tells me it’s more than that.”

Diana raised her eyebrows. “Never you mind.”

“Diana…”

“Fine. At the risk of being condescending, I’m proud of you. It’s been quite the odyssey. I’m glad you were able to see it through.” Diana tucked a windblown lock of hair behind her ear. “Now, the really important question. What did the ring look like?”

“A four-carat emerald-cut diamond.”

Diana smirked. “They _are_ a girl’s best friend.”


	21. Chapter 20

A month later, in the blue shadows of a Sicilian dusk, a gentle winter rain fell on the hills and chestnut trees.

The storm clattered on the shingles of the church at the end of the road, and ran in rainbow-tinted rivulets down the stained glass windows. It pooled in the gutters and glistened on the climbing tomato leaves, and it dripped off the cupolas and the roof of the garden shed.

Inside, 47 watched the night creep over the countryside, in the comfort of an old brown armchair in the rectory living room. His overcoat dried on a rack by the crackling fireplace. Steam curled around his face as he sipped coffee from a banded cup. A pair of creaking, timid footsteps came through the doorway, and Father Vittorio sank into the chair across from him.

“How long are you staying?”

47 crossed his ankles. “Only until Tuesday.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.” Vittorio settled into his seat. “You never visit long enough for me to catch up with you.”

A comfortable silence fell between them as they drank their coffee.

“How are they?” 47 asked.

“The townspeople?”

“The tomatoes.”

“I’m not sure. They haven’t bloomed yet.” Vittorio squinted at the vines outside. “It’s been a wet winter this year. I’m a little worried they’ll rot. I have to check them tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll do it.”

“No you won’t.” Vittorio pushed his oversized glasses up his nose. “I’m old. I need the exercise. Besides, you’re here as my guest. If you want to tend to my tomatoes, you can retire again.”

A passing gust of wind rattled the leaded window panes - and when the silence returned, Vittorio laughed a rueful laugh.

“You never change, do you?”

47 glanced up. “What do you mean?”

“You ask about the tomatoes so I won’t ask about you.”

Hundreds of miles away on an Agency private jet, Diana typed on her tablet keyboard in a hand-stitched leather seat. The purple night sky flew by as she dimmed her overhead light, and a flight attendant walked out with a white china cup on a tray.

“Your tea, ma’am,” he said, and set it down.

Diana smiled up at him. “Thank you.”

“Can I get you anything else?”

“No. I’m about to make a call.”

The flight attendant nodded and took the tray back to the galley, and Diana tapped her tablet screen and stuck in her earpiece. 47’s phone vibrated in his hip pocket, so he set his cup down on the antique chess table.

47 stood up. “I should take this.”

Vittorio sighed. “I suppose you should.”

47 stepped into the second-floor hall and answered his phone.

“Diana.”

“47.” Diana smiled. “Good to hear you come up for air. How’s your stay?”

“Quiet.”

“I expected nothing less.” Diana stretched her legs out to shake off the inflight stiffness. “Before I forget, I wanted to pass on a message from the board. They’re grateful for how you handled the Mattias Swanepoel affair.”

“Are they?”

“I didn’t realize it when I sent you after him, but the Agency has been cleaning up his messes for some time.” Diana flexed one foot, then the other, then tucked them under her seat. “Apparently Swanepoel had been a repeat client before, contracting us every few years for jobs across East Africa. They tended to be problematic and expensive to carry out, and though he paid well, the board felt that he was wearing out his welcome.”

47’s shoes creaked on the floorboards. “I didn’t know.”

“Neither did I. None of his assignments crossed my desk until Kang-min Choi.” Diana planted her elbow on the arm of her chair. “Either way, all’s well that ends well. I earn points with the board, you take care of an Agency nuisance and see your friend again.”

47 eyed Vittorio through the gold-lit doorway - and paced deeper into the dark hall so he couldn’t hear.

“All right.” He stuck his hand in his pocket. “Why did you really call?”

Diana propped her head on her knuckles as her shoulders sank.

“Um…” she set the corners of her mouth - “I’m not sure how to tell you this. But given the last few months, I have some awkward news for you.”

47 frowned. “What?”

“This evening, I received your next contract.”

“Who’s the target?”

Diana hesitated. “Vivienne Westgate.”

47 raised his eyebrows, but didn’t respond.

“Do you remember when I wondered about who Miss Westgate was?”

“I do.”

“It looks like I was onto something.” Diana pressed a key on her keyboard. “‘Vivienne Westgate’ is a pseudonym of Patricia Gillingham, a minor baronetess living in Derbyshire in Haddon Hall. She’s made a living off of various personas for fifteen years, writing for major romance labels before striking out on her own.”

47 stopped by the window at the end of the hall, and a burst in the storm spattered a sheet of rain across the glass.

“The success of _Death and Orchids_ has made her an overnight millionaire, and a powerful, if dubious figure in the publishing world. However, with her new fortune has come a specter from her past.”

“A debt?”

“Her loose professional morals have caught up with her.” Diana read through the briefing without her usual sadistic cheer. “You see, Gillingham hires ghostwriters for most of her manuscripts, a common way for successful authors to increase their turnaround. But while these nameless assistants toil away on her next hit, Gillingham spies on their unpublished work - and takes it for her own.” She scrolled down the dossier with her finger on the arrow key. “In April of last year, seven writers took her to court, accusing her of plagiarism as far back as 2005. All the cases fell apart before they reached a settlement, as Gillingham stalled the proceedings and depleted their legal funds. One by one, the inconvenient accusers began to slip away.”

“Until now.”

“It seems Lady Gillingham has finally met her match.” Diana swiped to a photo of a woman with fluffy blonde hair. “Her last victim was a woman known as ‘Ariadne Featherstone,’ a seasoned erotica writer with eight novels under her belt. But she made another fatal mistake when she tried to shut her up: Ariadne comes from oil money, and is used to getting what she wants.” She pulled up a composite image of social media screenshots. “For three months, she endured Gillingham’s attempts to buy her off and a mounting campaign of death threats from fans of Gillingham’s other work. When one threatened her in person, Ariadne decided enough was enough. She reached out to the Agency - and paid double your asking price.”

“Eliminate the thief and the competition in one stroke.”

“The queen is dead,” Diana mused. “Long live the queen of smut.”

47 didn’t answer.

“47? Are you there?”

47 grunted. “Huh.”

“I know.” Diana made a sympathetic face. “I’ll admit, I’m impressed at how well the industry covered this up. Very few people seem to know _Death and Orchids_ was her doing. Some reporters have even asked Miss Westgate to take sides.”

“They fooled us.”

“They certainly did.” Diana’s eyes widened at the thought. “Agencies, conspiracies, assumed names, murder plots. Who knew the world of romance fiction was so much like ours?”

47 listened to Vittorio mill around in the other room, over the soft _tap-tap-tap_ of the rain on the windowsill.

Diana shifted in her seat and sat up straight. “Well?”

47 bowed his head. “A contract is a contract.”

“Are you sure?” Diana asked. “I could pull strings. Get it reassigned. It’s a straightforward job. Most of our agents could handle it.”

“Book a flight. Send me the details.”

Diana cracked a rueful smile. “Well, no one can accuse you of being unprofessional.”

47 stayed silent.

Diana added, “It was fun while it lasted, though, wasn’t it?”

“I’ll be gentle.”

Diana closed her tablet. “I’ll take that as a yes.”


	22. Epilogue

On a crisp Chicago day, 47 stared out the white-lettered window of Tommy Clemenza’s tailor shop.

He waited in his shirtsleeves in one of the red wingback chairs, and a space heater rumbled beside him on the carpeted floor. Downstairs, Tommy unrolled black thread in the basement workshop, and his footsteps and snips drifted through the open service door. And on the storefront counter, an analog radio by the cash register played a somber news broadcast.

 _Sad news for fans of the_ Highland Hearts _and_ Cassandra Nightstar _series this week: On Sunday, author Patricia Gillingham was found dead at her home in England. After responding to a call from a member of her house’s staff, local police recovered her body from the manor’s swimming pool._

Tommy’s sewing machine hummed in short, furious bursts.

_Sources say Gillingham had been drinking heavily that night, and so far, authorities are treating her death as an accident. But not all of her fans on social media are convinced, with some citing the drama surrounding her plagiarism case. Gillingham wrote many bestselling series under several pen names, and last April, seven authors claimed she’d lifted excerpts from their work. One of her highest-profile accusers, Ariadne Featherstone, has joined us here in the studio to express her surprising sympathy._

_“I’m absolutely crushed,”_ Ariadne said. _“I… I mean, I know authors are supposed to always know what to say, but I’m lost for words. I know Pat and I had history, but I’m not the kind to gloat over death. The book world is going to feel her loss for many years to come.”_

The newscaster responded, _“Well, her fans are certainly gutted, too. We’ve seen a beautiful outpouring from the romance community.”_

On the balmy shore of Cozumel, Diana stretched out on a beach towel in a vintage black ruched swimsuit. She rolled onto her stomach and pulled down the brim of her black sun hat, and took a drink from the piña colada sitting by her phone.

 _“I know. In fact, I did something I’ve never done before. I wrote to my publisher and I asked ‘em for a last-minute edit.”_ Ariadne’s Texas-tinged voice played from a student’s phone. _“There’s a character in my new book I renamed Patricia after her.”_

_“I’m sure your readers will love that gesture.”_

_“It’s the least I can do. You know, as writers, we have the power to make people immortal. I just hope I’ve given her a little slice of it. It’s what I think she’d want.”_

_“Ariadne, thank you,”_ the newscaster said. _“That was Ariadne Featherstone. Her new book,_ Your Windswept Heart, _comes out April 23rd.”_

Diana fished in her beach bag and pulled out her earpiece, turned her phone over, unlocked it, and found 47 in her contact list. She slid her thick-framed sunglasses down her nose to see the screen, and she wiggled the earpiece under her temple bar as she pressed call.

47 picked up. “Diana?”

“47. Am I interrupting something?”

“No.”

“Hmm. Sorry to hear it. I thought you might’ve found a new book.” Diana admired the jewel-green ocean as it crashed on the shore. “Are you somewhere you can listen?”

“I’m in Tom Clemenza’s shop.”

Diana winced as a seagull squawked near her. “Oh, good. Tell him I say hello.”

47 furrowed his brow. “Where are you?”

“Somewhere warm.” Diana crossed her legs. “It’s been a long time since I’ve gone on spring holiday.”

A group of students laid out their college logo towels nearby, and when the seagull found nothing interesting, it flew away.

“Now. This isn’t official, so don’t react,” Diana said. “But I think I might know who your next ‘person of interest’ will be.”

“‘Person of interest?’”

“I’m in public. Bear with me.” Diana lowered her voice, then checked over her left and right shoulders just to make sure. “I got a stack of files in my inbox yesterday, and I spotted a Chilean drug lord named Javier Ortiz Vega. He’s under pressure from Interpol and fleeing to Germany. I just wanted to tip you off. That’s where you may be headed next.”

“Sounds time-sensitive.”

“Probably, but I don’t see anything else. The only trick will be to catch him.” Diana let her ankles swing back and forth. “No bunkers. No diamonds. No international conspiracies. I hate to say it, but it almost sounds like business as usual.”

“Run him through the system for any secret identities.”

“Fair point.” Diana chuckled as the students unpacked a volleyball. “You know, I realized something.”

47 laid his hand in his lap. “What?”

“There’s a decent chance Vivienne Westgate has played us all for fools.”

“You think it wasn’t Gillingham?”

“No, though… well, I guess there is that. It’s possible it was one of the ghostwriters she kept stealing from.” Diana stopped for another sip from her hurricane glass. “No, this time I’m thinking more about the book itself.”

“How?”

“I wonder if there’s more to _Death and Orchids_ than it seems.”

“What do you mean?”

“I know it’s far-fetched, but consider it. The grapefruit? The metaphors? Do some of its shortcomings seem a little…” Diana paused for effect - “intentional?”

“A parody?”

Diana smirked. “What? You don’t think it’s possible?”

“Of what?”

“You know.” Diana shrugged. “Smutty romance fiction.”

47 frowned out the window. “It seemed to take itself seriously to me.”

“Ahh, but that’s the sign of a good parody. It does.”

“Sounds like a lot of effort to do something poorly on purpose.”

“That’s true.” Diana spun her drink umbrella between her finger and thumb. “They say the correct answer is usually the simplest one. And there are plenty of novels that are just as bad or worse. I just wonder.”

47 watched Tommy come upstairs. “I guess we’ll never know.”

“No, I suppose not.” Diana glanced across the beach at the volleyball game. “Now, I’ll call you again when I have a location and time for you. In the meantime - it’s been a pleasure.”

“Thank you.”

“Enjoy your time off.”

“I will.”

47 lowered his phone and pressed the button to end the call, and right on time, Tommy brought his finished jacket up the steps. 47 took it from him and slid his arms into the sleeves, and Tommy patted all the way from his shoulder to his wrist.

“One brand-new sleeve. Four buttons, surgeon’s cuff, like you asked. I let the other out, too. I can tell you’ve been lifting weights again.”

47 mumbled, “Sorry for the inconvenience.”

“It’s all right. It’s those spiky English fences that always do you in.” Tommy brushed the vents on the back of the jacket, then let go. “Is that all?”

“It is.” 47 opened his wallet. “How much do I owe you?”

“Don’t worry about it. Have a good day.”

47 left three hundreds on the counter. “Diana says hello.”

The bell above the door jingled as 47 stepped out, and he noticed a crowd streaming into the bookstore across the street. He looked left, looked right, and sauntered down to the corner, then strolled across the intersection and peeked in the window.

 _Are you ready?_ The sleek black poster in the window asked. _Deeper. Darker. Hotter. Out Now,_ the one beside it said. In the corner, someone had taped a piece of printer paper - _Launch week sale: Buy the sequel, get_ Death and Orchids _50% off!_

47 read the signs again and stood up very straight, and an itchy, familiar curiosity wormed into his shoes. So he strode forward, opened the heavy door, and slipped inside, where the customers huddled together and pulled books off a display stack.

47 inched his way across the crowded store to the stack, nudged a hardcover copy out, and examined it. A black cover, like the first one, on slippery, high-gloss paper. A white orchid with a single petal falling off its stem. At the top, _Death Deflowered,_ in the same white serif font - and sure enough, at the bottom, _Vivienne Westgate._

A teenage girl reached in and snuck another copy out, and she giggled with her friend as they retreated behind a shelf. 47 raised his eyebrow at the author’s name - and this time, he turned it over and read the blurb on the back.

> _A year ago, Theresa Lovejoy met painter Vincent Valmont - brilliant, but haunted, and utterly bewitched with her. The two began a relationship unlike any Theresa had ever experienced, until the shadow of murder threatened to nip their love in the bud. Now, free of the specter of Dirk Laughton’s murder and newly engaged, Theresa looks forward to a future as both Vincent’s muse and wife._

> _But when a second murder rocks the city’s bohemian district, Theresa realizes her new life will not be as perfect as it seemed. Another body surfaces in another death tableau - this time, a much closer replica of one of Vincent’s celebrated works. When more follow, it becomes clear that a serial killer is to blame, and new suspicions fall on Vincent as his dark past comes to light. As Vincent’s demons reemerge and outside forces conspire to tear them apart, Theresa will question everything - even the man she has given her body and soul._

An old woman beside him opened a copy of her own, and another turned a rotating rack of tie-in merchandise. 47 tucked the book in his arm and took it to the register, where a pink-haired cashier stood at the counter and chewed her gum.

“Let me guess,” she said, _“Death Deflowered?”_

47 put it down. “That’s right.”

“Will that be all today?”

47 stuck his hand in his breast pocket. “It will.”

“That’ll be $26.50…” the cashier began, but stopped herself. “Wait.”

47 froze with his fingers on his wallet flap.

The cashier looked sheepish. “Listen…”

47 waited for her to go on.

The cashier leaned in and murmured, “You know these books are terrible, right?”

47 took his wallet out. “I know.”

The cashier blinked. “Oh.”

47 thumbed through his cash. “I thought that was the point.”

“Huh. Okay.” The cashier put her scanner down. “Didn’t think you looked like the type.”

47 held the money out and not quite - but almost - smiled. “It’s a gift.”


End file.
